GIFT   OF 
MICHAEL  REESE 


SEVEN  STORIES. 


DON?   G.    MITCHELL, 


SEVEN  STORIES, 


BASEMENT 


ATTIC. 


BY   THE    AUTHOR    OF 


"REVERIES    OF   A    BACHELOR.' 


X)  or.  Aid. 


NEW  YORK 

ES  SCRIBNEIW 
1891 


COPYRIGHT,  f85f,  186£,  1883 
Br  DONALD  G.  MITCHELL 


PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY, 
NEW   YORK. 


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DEDICATORY     LETTER: 


Dr.  Fordyce  Barker. 


MY  DEAR  DOCTOR: 

T  I  ^HIS  book  of  Seven  Stories,  before  which  I  infcribc 
-»-  your  name,  is  made  up  from  thofe  fpecial  remi- 
nifcences  of  travel,  which — after  a  lapfe  of  ten  years — hang 
strongeft  in  my  mind.  I  think  there  are  fome  paflably  good 
things  in  it ;  and  fome,  I  fear;  which  are  not  fo  good.  Thus 
far,  it  is  unlike  your  practice,  of  which  the  foundness  is 
uniform. 

At  beft,  I  count  the  book  only  a  little  bundle  of  fagots 
which  I  have  fet  to  crackle  away  under  the  kettle,  where  I 


vi  DEDICATORY  LETTER. 

hope  fome  day  to  cook  a  more  favory  mefs.  And  though 
there  be  not  much  in  this  which  mall  flick  to  the  ribs,  I 
hope  there  is  nothing  that  will  breed  in  any  man  an  indi 
gestion.  I  think  you  count  light  food  fometimes  a  good  di 
etary  ;  and  unlefs  I  am  miflaken,  I  have  known  you,  on 
occasions,  to  {"mother  a  pill  in  a  iyllabub.  And  if  I  have 
tried  to  drop  here  and  there,  in  the  courfe  of  thefe  pages,  a 
nugget  of  wholefome  fentiment,  I  hope  it  may  prove  as  good 
a  tonic  as  any  of  your  iodides. 

I  feel  reafonably  certain  that  the  charge  for  it  will  be 
fmaller : — but  on  tnis  fcore,  I  cannot  fpeak  pofitively,  fmce 
your  generofity  always  keeps  me  your  debtor. 

Very  truly  your  friend, 

DONALD  G.  MITCHELL. 

ZDGEWOOD, 

April,  1864. 


CONTENTS. 


BASEMENT: 

SERVING  FOR  INTRODUCTION, 


FIRST  STORY: 

WET  DAY  AT  AN  IRISH  INN,          .        .        .        .39 


SECOND  STORY: 

ACCOUNT  OF  A  CONSULATE, 


69 


THIRD  STORY: 

THE  PETIT  SOULIER,     .        .        .  .        .117 


viii  CONTENTS. 

FOURTH  STORY: 

THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  ICE-KING,      ....  147 

FIFTH  STORY: 

THE  CABRIOLET, 179 

SIXTH  STORY: 

THE  COUNT  PESARO, 205 

SEVENTH  STORY: 

EMILE  ROQUE, 249 

ATTIC: 

UNDER  THE  ROOF,  .  293 


BASEMENT: 


SERVING    FOR    INTRODUCTION 


OF  THK 

UNIVERSITY 


BASEMENT: 


Serving  for  Introduction. 

IN  an  out  of  the  way  corner  of  my  library  are  five 
plethoric  little  note-books  of  Travel.  One  of  them, 
and  it  is  the  earliest,  is  bound  in  smart  red  leather,  and 
has  altogether  a  dapper  British  air  ;  its  paper  is  firm 
and  evenly  lined,  and  it  came  a  great  many  years  ago 
(I  will  not  say  how  many)  out  of  a  stationer's  shop 
upon  Lord  street  in  Liverpool.  A  second,  in  stiff 
boards,  marbled,  and  backed  with  muslin,  wears  a 
soldierly  primness  in  its  aspect  that  always  calls  to  mind 
the  bugles,  and  the  drums,  and  the  brazen  helmets  of 
Berlin  —  where,  once  upon  a  time,  I  added  it  to  my 
little  stock  of  travelling  companions.  A  third,  in  limp 
morocco,  bought  under  the  Hotel  de  VEcu  at  Geneva, 
shows  a  great  deal  of  the  Swiss  affectation  of  British 
•w  ares,  and  has  borne  bravely  the  hard  knapsack  ser 
vice,  and  the  many  stains  which  belonged  to  those  glo 
rious  mountain  tramps  that  live  again  whenever  I  turn 


4  SEVEN  STORIES. 

over  its  comely  pages.  Another  is  tattered,  diAgy — the 
paper  frail,  and  a  half  of  its  cover  gone  ;  yet  I  think  it 
is  a  fair  specimen  of  what  the  Roman  stationers  could 
do,  in  the  days  when  the  Sixteenth  Gregory  was  Pope. 
The  fifth  and  last,  is  coquettish,  jaunty — as  prim  as  the 
Prussian,  limp  like  the  Geneve se,  and  only  less  solid 
than  the  English  :  it  is  all  over  French  ;  and  the  fellows 
to  it  may  very  likely  have  served  a  tidy  grisette  to  write 
down  her  tale  of  finery,  or  some  learned  member  of  the 
Institute  to  record  his  note-takings  in  the  Imperial 
Library. 

I  dare  not  say  how  often  these  little  conjurers  of 
books  wean  me  away  from  all  graver  employment, 
and  tempt  me  to  some  ramble  among  the  highlands 
of  Scotland,  or  the  fastnesses  of  the  Apennines.  I 
do  not  know  but  that  this  refreshment  of  the  old  sen 
timent  of  travel,  through  the  first  unstudied  jottings- 
down,  is  oftentimes  more  delightful  than  a  repeated 
visit. 

To-night — by  a  word,  by  a  fragment  of  a  line, 
dropped  upon  my  little  Genevese  book,  the  peak  of 
Mont  Blanc  cleaves  the  sky  for  the  first  time  in  all  my 
range  of  vision  ;  the  clear,  up-lifted  mountain  of  white, 
just  touched  with  the  rosy  hues  of  approaching  twilight 
— the  blue  brothers  of  nearer  mountains  shouldering  up 
the  monarch — the  dark,  low  fir  forests  fringing  all  the 
valley  up  which  I  look — a  shining  streak  of  road  that 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  6 

beckons  me  on  to  the  Chamouni  worship — the  river  (is 
it  the  Arve  ?)  glistening  and  roaring  a  great  song — al? 
this  my  little  book  summons,  freshly,  and  without  dis 
turbing  object.  But  if  I  repeat  the  visit,  the  inevitable 
comparisons  present  themselves.  u  Aye,  this  is  it ;  but 
the  atmosphere  is  not  altogether  so  clear,  or  the  ap 
proach  is  not  so  favorable  ;  "  and  so,  for  mere  vanity 'a 
sake,  you  must  give  a  fellow-passenger  the  benefit  of 
your  previous  knowledge  :  as  if  all  the  "  le  void  I "  and 
"  le  voilal"  were  not  the  merest  impertinences  in  such 
august  presence  !  No  :  it  is  sadly  true — perhaps  pleas 
antly  true — that  there  are  scenes  of  which  no  second 
sight  will  enlarge  the  bounds  wherein  imagination  may 
disport  itself, — for  which  no  second  sight  will  create  an 
atmosphere  of  more  glorious  rarity. 

To-night,  this  tattered  little  Roman  journal,  by 
merest  mention  of  the  greasy,  cushioned  curtain,  under 
whose  corner  I  first  urged  my  way  into  the  great  aisle 
of  St.  Peter's — brings  up  the  awed  step  with  which  I 
sidled  down  the  marble  pavement,  breathing  that  soft 
atmosphere,  perfumed  with  fading  incense — oppressed, 
as  by  a  charm,  with  the  thought  of  that  genius  which 
had  conjured  this  miracle  of  architecture  ;  and  oppress 
ed  (I  know  not  how)  by  a  thought  of  that  Papal  hier 
archy  which  by  such  silent  show  of  pomp  and  power, 
had  compelled  the  service  of  millions.  And  if  I  go 
back  again,  all  this  delightfully  vague  estimate  of  its 


6  SEVEN  STORIES. 

grandeur  cannot  renew  itself ;  the  height  is  the  same ,' 
all  the  width  is  there  ;  those  cherubs  who  hold  the  font 
are  indeed  giants  ;  but  the  aroma  of  first  impressions 
is  lost  in  a,  whirl  of  new  comparisons  and  estimates  ; 
is  the  Baldachino  indeed  as  high  as  they  say  it  is  ?  Is 
St.  Peter's  toe,  of  a  truth  worn  away  with  the  invete 
rate  kissings  ?  Every  piece  of  statuary,  every  glowing 
blazon  of  mosaic  compels  an  admeasurement  of  the  old 
fancy  with  the  object  itself.  All  the  charming,  intoxi 
cating  generality  of  impression  is  preyed  upon,  and  ab 
sorbed  piecemeal  by  specialities  of  inference,  or  of  ob 
servation  ;  while  here,  in  the  quiet  of  my  room,  with  no 
distracting  object  in  view,  I  blunder  through  the  disor 
derly  characters  of  my  note-book  with  all  the  old  glow 
upon  me,  and  start  to  life  again  that  first,  rich,  Roman 
dream. 

And  the  same  is  true  of  all  lesser  things  :  There  was 
once  a  peasant  girl,  somewhere  in  Normandy,  with  de- 
liciously  quaint  muslin  head-dress,  and  cheeks  like  the 
apricots  she  sold, — a  voice  that  rippled  like  a  song ;  and 
yet,  with  only  a  half  line  of  my  blotted  note-book,  she 
springs  into  all  that  winsome,  coquettish  life  which 
sparkled  then  and  there  in  her  little  Norman  town  ;  but 
if  I  were  to  leave  the  pleasant  cheatery  of  my  book, 
and  ;ravel  never  so  widely,  all  up  and  down  through 
Normandy,  I  could  never  meet  with  such  a  blithe  young 
peasant  again. 


INTRODVCTION.  7 

By  one  or  two  of  the  old  pen-marks,  I  am  reminded 
of  a  burly  beggar,  encountered  in  my  first  stroll  through 
Liverpool,  He  was  without  any  lower  limbs  that  I 
could  discover,  and  was  squatted  upon  the  stone  flag 
ging  of  St.  Nicholas'  church-yard,  where  he  asked 
charity  with  the  authoritative  air  of  a  commander  of 
an  army.  And  I  recall  with  a  blush  the  admiring 
spirit  with  which,  as  a  fresh  and  timid  traveller,  I 
yielded  my  pence  to  his  impetuous  summation  ;  and  how 
I  reckoned  his  masterful  manner  fairly  typical  of  the 
sturdy  British  empire,  which  squatted  upon  its  little 
islands  of  the  sea,  demanded— in  virtue  only  of  its  big 
head  and  shoulders — tribute  of  all  the  world.  I  do  not 
believe  that  such  imaginative  exaltation  of  feeling  could 
overcome  me  upon  a  repeated  visit ;  or  if  it  did,  that  it 
would  beget — as  then — the  very  romanticism  of  charity. 

There  was  a  first-walk — scored  down  in  the  red- 
covered  book — along  a  brook-side  in  the  forest  near  to 
Blair- Athol  in  the  north  of  Scotland, — in  the  course  of 
which  all  the  songs  of  Burns  that  I  had  ever  known,  or 
heard,  came  soughing  to  my  ear  through  the  fir-branches, 
as  if  ploughmen  in  plaids  had  sung  them ;  but  if  1 
should  go  there  again,  I  think  the  visionary  plough 
men  would  sing  no  more ;  and  that  I  should  be  esti 
mating  the  growth  of  the  larches,  or  wondering  if  tlio 
trout  would  rise  briskly  to  a  hackle  ? 

I  do  not  write  thus,  simply  to  iterate  the  stale  tru- 


8  SEVEN  STORIES. 

ism,  that  the  delight  and  freshness  of  first  impressions 
of  travel,  can  never  be  renewed  ;  that  we  all  know  ;  all 
enthusiasms  have  but  one  life,  in  the  same  mind.  Con 
victions  may  be  renewed,  and  gain  strength  and  con 
sistency  by  renewal  ;  but  those  enthusiasms  which  find 
their  life  in  exultant  imaginative  foray,  can  no  more  be 
twice  entertained,  than  a  foaming  beaker  of  Mumm'a 
Imperial  can  be  twice  drank. 

What  I  wish  to  claim  for  my  spotty  note-books,  is—' 
that  their  cabalistic  signs  revive  more  surely  and  fresh 
ly  the  aroma  of  first  impressions  than  any  renewed 
visit  could  do.  Therefore  I  cherish  them.  Time  and 
time  again,  I  take  them  down  from  their  niche  in  my 
library,  when  no  more  serious  work  is  in  hand,  and  glide 
insensibly  into  their  memories, — the  present  slipping 
from  me  like  a  dream, — and  indulge  in  that  delightful 
bewilderment  at  which  I  have  hinted,  and  in  which  cities 
and  mountains  pile  before  me,  as  if  I  lived  among  them. 

It  is  true  that  the  loose  and  disjointed  wording  in 
which  I  have  scored  down  incidents  or  scenes  of  travel, 
would  prove  wholly  uninteresting,  if  not  absolutely 
unintelligible,  to  others.  There  are  little  catch- Avords, 
by  the  sight  of  which  I  may  set  a  great  river  aflow, 
or  build  a  temple ;  there  are  others,  that  start  a  com 
pany  of  dead  faces  from  their  graves,  or  put  me  in  the 
middle  of  a  great  whirl  of  masked  figures  who  dance 
the  night  out  to  the  music  of  Musard.  And  I  must  say 


IN  TROD  UC 


that  I  rather  enjoy  this  symbolism  of  language,  which 
individuates  a  man's  private  memories.  Who  knows 
what  cold,  invidious  eye  may  be  scanning  them  some 
day? 

Let  me  satisfy  the  reader's  curiosity — if  I  have  suc 
ceeded  in  arousing  any — by  a  little  sample.  It  is  taken 
from  my  dapper-looking  British  note-book,  and  is  dated 

"London,   "  (near  twenty  years  ago),  and  runs 

thus  : — "  Arrival — night  time — sea  of  lights — order — 
clattering  cab — immense  distances — whither  going  ? — 
Covent  Garden — no  money — wanderings — American 
Prof. — tight  cloak — Cornhill — Post-office — anxieties — 
relief." 

Can  the  reader  make  anything  of  it  ?  If  he  cannot, 
I  think  that  I  can  and  will.  It  brings  to  mind  the  first 
approach  to  London,  and  all  the  eager  wonder  with 
which  I  came  bowling  down  upon  it  at  dusk  :  this  side 
and  that,  I  look  for  tokens  of  the  great  Babylon ;  but 
the  air  is  murky  and  dim,  and  it  is  past  sunset ;  still  I 
look,  peering  through  the  gloom.  At  last,  there  can  be 
no  mistake  ;  a  wilderness  of  lamps,  far  as  I  can  see — 
cast  and  west — fret  the  horizon  with  a  golden  line. 
On  and  on  we  hurtle  over  the  rail,  and  always — east 
and  west — the  golden  lamp-line  of  horizon  stretches 
until  we  are  fairly  encircled  by  it,  and  the  murky  at 
mosphere  has  changed  into  a  yellow  canopy  of  smoke, 
under  which — of  a  sudden — we  halt,  in  London. 
1* 


10  SEVEN  STORIES. 

There  is  order ;  I  remember  that.  There  is  some 
where  a  particular  cab  in  a  great  line  of  cabs,  of  which 
I  become  presently  the  occupant,  in  virtue  of  the  sys 
tem  which  seems  to  govern  passengers,  railways,  sta 
tions,  cabmen  and  all.  There  is  a  wilderness  of  streets, 
— of  shining  shop-fronts, — of  silent,  tall  houses, — of 
brother  cabs,  rattling  our  way — rattling  the  contrary 
way ;  there  is  a  flicker  of  lanterns  on  a  river,  where 
steamers  with  checkered  pipes  go  by  like  ghosts  ;  there 
is  a  plunge  into  narrow  streets,  and  presently  out  we 
go  into  broad  and  dazzling  ones ;  on  and  on,  we  pass, 
by  shops  that  show  butchers'  stores,  shops  that  are  parti 
colored  with  London  haberdashery,  drug  shops,  shops 
with  bonnets,  shops  with  books,  shops  with  bakers' 
wares  ;  a  long,  bright  clattering  drive,  it  seems  to  me, 
before  I  am  landed  in  Covent  Garden  square. 

Yet — how  well  I  remember — under  all  the  boyish 
excitement  of  a  first  visit,  there  lay  a  covert  embarrass 
ment  and  anxiety ;  for  by  the  most  awkward  of  haps,  I 
chanced  upon  that  first  night  in  London,  to  be  nearly 
penniless.  It  is  rather  a  sorry  position  to  be  in, 
at  almost  any  time ;  but  for  a  young  stranger,  whose 
excitable  brain  is  half  addled  by  the  throng  of  novel 
ties  and  of  splendor,  in  the  largest  city  of  the  world, 
and  whose  nearest  familiar  friends  are  three  thousand 
miles  away — the  money-less  condition  is  awkward  in 
deed.  I  had  even  cruel  apprehensions  that  I  should 


INTRODUCTION.  1] 

not  be  able  to  meet  the  demands  of  the  cabman  ;  in 
these,  however,  I  was  fortunately  mistaken ;  and  with 
six  half-pence  in  my  pocket  I  found  myself  for  the  first 
time  a  guest  at  a  London  inn. 

I  had,  indeed,  ordered  remittances  to  be  sent  me 
there,  from  the  Continent ;  but  in  due  course  of  mail 
the  reply  could  not  arrive  till  next  day.  And  who 
could  tell  what  might  happen  to  the  mail  ?  If  I  had 
only  placed  a  little  curb  upon  my  curiosity  in  the  south 
ern  counties,  and  not  loitered  as  I  did  about  Salisbury, 
and  Stonehenge,  and  Winchester  ! 

I  awoke  upon  a  murky  morning  in  full  sight  of 
Co  vent  Garden  market ;  and  could  I  believe  my  eyes  ? 
— were  strawberries  on  sale  under  this  chilling  March 
gloom  ?  I  rang  the  bell,  and  sent  my  card  below,  with 
an  inquiry  for  letters. 

No  letters  had  come. 

I  ate  my  breakfast  nervously — though  the  chops 
were  done  to  a  turn,  and  the  muffins  were  even  less 
leathern  than  usual.  I  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  day 
sauntering  between  Charing  Cross,  Temple  Bar,  and  the 
River.  I  have  no  dislike  to  a  good,  wearisome  walk ; 
most  people,  with  only  six  half-pence  in  their  pockets, 
have  not. 

I  kept  my  room  during  the  evening  (although  Jenny 
Lind  was  figuring  in  the  Somriambula  on  the  next  block) 
and  in  the  morning,  after  mail-time,  sent  the  servant 
down  again  with  my  card — for  letters. 


12  SEVEN  STORIES. 

He  returned  very  promptly,  with  the  reply, — "N} 
letters  this  morning,  Sir." 

"  Ah  !  "  (and  I  think  I  crowded  as  much  of  hypoc 
risy  oto  the  expression,  as  ever  man  did.) 

The  chops  on  this  morning  were  even  better  than 
yesterday ;  and  the  muffins  were  positively  light ; — I 
could  have  sworn  they  had  been  baked  within  the  hour. 

As  I  sat  ruminating  over  the  grate,  the  thought 
struck  me  that  I  had  possibly  made  an  error  in  the  ad 
dress  left  with  the  Paris  banker.  I  can  hardly  tell 
why,  but  there  seemed  to  me  a  sudden  confusion  in  my 
mind  between  the  names  of  Covent  Garden  and  Corn- 
hill.  Possibly  I  had  ordered  my  letters  addressed  to 
Cornhill?  I  had,  unfortunately,  no  memoranda  to 
guide  me  :  to  one  of  these  two  localities  I  was  sure  that 
I  had  requested  remittances  to  be  directed.  What  if 
they  were  lying  at  No.  9  Cornhill  ? 

Everybody  who  has  been  in  London  knows  that  a 
crowded  and  weary  walk  lies  between  the  two  places  ; 
but  there  were  no  pennies  to  be  spared  for  the  omnibus 
people,  however  cajolingly  they  might  beckon.  So  I 
entered  bravely  upon  the  tramp :  and  who  should  I 
come  upon  half  down  Fleet  street,  under  the  shadow  of 
St.  Bride's,  but  my  old  Latin  professor,  whom  I  had 
seen  last  in  the  plank  box  that  forms  the  dais  in  the  re 
citation  room  of  a  quiet  New  England  college.  If 
Ergasilus  (of  the  Capteivi — whose  humor  the  old  gen- 


INTRODUCTION.  13 

tleman  dearly  loved)  had  stepped  out  of  a  haberdasher's 
shop,  and  confronted  me  with  talk  about  his  chances  of 
a  prospective  dinner,  I  could  hardly  have  been  more 
surprised. 

His  white  hair,  his  stooping  figure,  his  cloak  gath 
ered  tightly  about  him,  his  keen  eye,  fairly  dancing 
with  boyish  excitement — all  these  formed  a  picture  I 
can  never  forget.  We  passed  a  pleasant  word  or  two 
of  salutation,  and  of  as  quick  adieux ;  only  words — 
"  verbce  sine  penu  et  pecunid" — (and  the  old  gentle 
man's  alliterative  rendering  of  it  came  back  to  me 
as  I  stood  there  penniless) . 

After  parting,  I  turned  to  watch  him,  as  he  thread 
ed  his  way  along  the  Fleet  street  walk ; — quick,  ner 
vous,  glancing  everywhere ;  if  only  our  sleepy  college 
cloisters  could  get  a  more  frequent  airing ! 

In  an  hour  and  a  half  thereafter,  I  found  myself, 
utterly  fagged,  pacing  up  and  down  the  sidewalk  of 
Cornhill.  I  found  a  Number  Nine.  I  made  appeal 
after  my  missing  letter  at  a  huckster's  shop  on  the 
street. 

They  knew  nothing  of  it. 

I  next  made  application  in  a  dark  court  of  the  rear. 

"  There  was  niver  a  gintleman  of  that  name  lived 
here." 

I  asked,  in  my  innocence, — "  if  the  postman  were  in 
possession  of  such  a  letter,  would  he  leave  it  ?  " 


14  SE  YEN  STO  HIES. 

"  Not;  being  a  boording-house — in  coorse  not." 
My  next  aim  was  to  intercept  the  Cornhill  postman 
himself.  Fortunately,  the  British  postmen  are  all  des 
ignated  by  red  cuffs  and  collars  ;  I  made  an  eager  rush 
at  some  three  or  four,  whom  I  espied  in  the  course  of 
an  hour  or  more  of  watch.  They  were  all  bound  to 
other  parts  of  the  city. 

By  this  time  I  had  an  annoying  sense  of  being  con 
stantly  under  the  eye  of  a  tall  policeman  in  the  neigh 
borhood.  I  thought  I  observed  him  pointing  me  out, 
with  an  air  of  apprehension,  to  a  comrade,  whose  beat 
joined  his  upon  the  corner  of  the  next  street. 

I  had  often  heard  of  the  willingness  to  communicate 
information  on  the  part  of  the  London  police,  and  de 
termined  to  divert  the  man's  suspicions  (if  he  entertain 
ed  any)  by  explaining  my  position.  I  thought  he  lis 
tened  incredulously.  However,  he  assured  me  very 
positively,  that  if  I  should  see  the  Cornhill  postman  on 
his  beat  (which  I  might  not  for  three  hours  to  come) , 
he  would  deliver  to  me  no  letter,  unless  at  the  door  to 
which  it  might  be  addressed,  and  then  only  unless  I  was 
an  acknowledged  inmate. 

He  advised  me  to  make  inquiries  at  the  Genera] 
Post-office. 

Under  his  directions,  I  walked,  wearily,  to  the  Gen 
eral  Post-office.  One  may  form  some  idea  of  the  Gen 
eral  Post-office  of  London  by  imagining  three  or  four 


INTRODUCTION.  15 

of  our  Fifth  Avenue  reservoirs  placed  side  by  side, 
flanked  with  Ionic  columns,  topped  with  attics,  and 
pierced  through  by  an  immense  hall,  on  either  side  of 
which  are  doors  and  traps  innumerable. 

I  entered  this  hall,  in  which  hundreds  were  moving 
about  like  bees — one  to  this  door,  and  one  to  another — 
and  all  of  them  with  a  most  enviable  rapidity  and  pre 
cision  of  movement  (myself,  apparently,  being  the  only 
lost  or  doubtful  one),  and  read,  with  a  vain  bewilder- 
ment,  the  numerous  notices  of  '  Ship  for  India ' — '  Mails 
here  close  at  3.15 ' — '  Packages  over  a  pound  at  the 
next  window,  left ' — '  All  newspapers  mailed  at  this 
window  must  be  in  wrappers ' — '  Charge  on  Sydney  let 
ters  raised  twopence ' — '  Bombay  mail  closes  at  two, 
this  day ' — '  Stamps  only.' 

Fluttering  about  for  a  while,  in  a  sad  state  of  trepi 
dation,  I  made  a  bold  push  for  an  open  window,  where 
an  active  gentleman  had  just  mailed  six  letters  for  Bom 
bay,  and  began — "  Please,  Sir,  can  you  tell  me  about 
the  Cornhill  postman  ?  " 

"  Know  nothing  about  him ! "  and  slap  went  the 
window. 

I  next  made  an  advance  to  the  newspaper  trap — 
rapped-— open  flew  the  door  :  "  I  wish  to  inquire,"  said 
I,  "  about  a  letter — " 

"  Next  window  to  left ! "  and  click  went  the  trap. 

I  marched  with  some  assurance  to  the  window  cu 


16  SE  YEN  STORIES. 

the  left :  the  same  pantomime  was  gone  through.  "  I 
want  to  know,"  I  began,  more  boldly,  "  about  a  letter 
directed  to  Cornhill." 

"  Know  nothing  about  it,  Sir ;  this  isn't  the  place, 
you  know." 

"And  pray  where  is  the  place,  if  you  please?" 
(This  seemed  a  very  kindly  man.) 

"  Oh,  dear  ! — well, — I  should  say, — now,  the  place 
was — let  me  see— over  the  way  somewhere.  It's  City, 
you  know." 

I  thanked  him ;  indeed  I  had  no  time  to  do  more, 
for  the  window  was  closed. 

I  marched  over  the  way — that  is,  to  the  opposite 
side  of  the  hall.  I  rapped  at  a  new  trap :  click !  it 
flew  open.  "  I  wish  to  inquire,"  said  I,  "  about  a  let 
ter  which  the  Cornhill  postman  may  have  taken  by  ac 
cident — " 

"  Oh — may  have  taken  :  better  find  out  if  he  really 
did,  you  know ;  for  if  he  didn't,  you  see,  it's  no  use, 
you  know,  t'inquire."  And — click  ! — the  trap  closed. 

How  to  find  out  now  if  he  really  did?  If  I  could 
only  see  the  Cornhill  postman,  who,  from  the  nature  of 
his  trust,  could  hardly  be  very  officious,  I  might  hope  at 
hast  for  some  information.  My  eyes  fell  at  this  junc 
ture  upon  a  well-fed  porter,  in  royal  livery,  who  waa 
loitering  about  the  great  entrance-gates  of  the  establish 
ment,  and  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  civic  beadle. 


INTRODUCTION.  17 

I  ventured  an  appeal  to  him  about  the  proballe 
whereabouts  of  the  Cornhill  postman. 

"  Oh,  Corn'ill  postm'n  ;  dear  me  !  I  should  say, 
now,  pVaps  he  might  be  down  to  the  pay-office.  That's 
to  the  right,  out  o'  the  yard,  down  a  halley — second 
flight  o'  'igh  steps,  like." 

I  went  out  of  the  yard,  and  down  the  alley,  and  ap 
plied,  as  directed,  at  the  second  flight  of  steps.  Right 
for  once  ;  it  was  the  pay-office. 

"  Was  the  Cornhill  postman  there?" 

"  He  was  not." 

"  Where  would  I  probably  find  him?" 

"  He  was  paid  off,  with  the  rest,  every  Saturday 
morning  at  nine  o'clock — precisely." 

It  was  now  Tuesday :  I  had  allowed  myself  on  this 
occasion,  only  a  week  for  London.  My  anticipations  of 
an  enjoyable  visit  were  not  high. 

I  returned  once  more  to  the  communicative  porter. 
I  think  I  touched  my  hat  in  preface  of  my  second  ap 
plication  (you  will  remember  that  I  was  fresh  from  the 
Continent):  "You  see,"  said  he,  "they  goes  to  the 
'stributing  office,  and  all  about,  and  it's  'ard  to  say  ajust 
where  he  might  be  ;  might  be  to  Corn'ill — poss'bly  ; 
might  not  be,  you  know;  might  be  'twixt  here  and 
there  ;  'stributing  office  is  to  the  left — third  court,  first 
flight,  door  to  right." 

I  made  my  way  to  the  distributing  oflfice  ;  it  seemed 


18  SEVEN  STORIES. 

a  4 likely  place'  to  find  the  man  I  was  in  search  of.  1 
found  the  door  described  by  my  stout  friend,  the  porter, 
and  entered  very  boldly.  It  opened  upon  an  immense 
hall,  resembling  a  huge  church,  with  three  tiers  of  gal 
leries  running  around  the  walls,  along  which  I  saw 
scores  of  postmen,  passing  and  repassing,  in  what  seem 
ed  interminable  confusion.  I  had  scarce  crossed  the 
threshold  when  I  was  encountered  by  an  official  of  some 
sort,  who  very  brusquely  demanded  my  business.  I  ex 
plained  that  I  was  in  search  of  the  Cornhill  postman. 

"  This  is  no  place  to  seek  him,  Sir  ;  he  comes  here 
for  his  letters,  and  is  off  directly.  No  strangers  are  al 
lowed  here,  Sir/"' 

The  man  seemed  civil,  though  peremptory. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,"  said  I,  appealingly,  "  can 
you  tell  me  how,  or  where,  I  can  see  the  man  who  dis 
tributes  the  Cornhill  letters  ?  " 

"  I  really  can't,  Sir." 

"  Could  you  tell  me  possibly  where  the  man  lives  ?  " 

"  Really  couldn't,  Sir  ;  don't  know  at  all ;  de'say  it 
wouldn't  be  far." 

I  think  he  saw  my  look  of  despair,  for  he  continued 
in  a  kinder  tone  :  "  Dear  me,  eh — did  you,  p'raps,  eh— 
might  I  ask,  eh — what  your  business  might  be  with 
the,  eh — Cornhill  postman  ?  " 

I  caught  at  what  seemed  my  last  hope.  "  I  want 
ed,"  said  I,  "  to  make  an  inquiry — " 


INTRODUCTION.  19 

He  interrupted — "Oh,  dear  me — bless  me — an  in 
quiry  !  Why,  you  see,  there's  an  office  for  inquiry.  It*? 
here  about — round  the  corner;  you'll  see  "the  window 
as  you  turn ;  closes  at  three  (looking  at  his  watch)  ; 
you've,  eh — six  minutes,  just." 

I  went  around  the  corner ;  I  found  the  window — 
4  Office  for  Inquiry,'  posted  above.  There  was  a  man 
who  stuttered,  asking  about  a  letter  which  he  had  mail 
ed  for  Calcutta  two  months  before,  to  the  address  of 
"  Mr.  T-t-t-th-thet-Theodore  T-t-tr-tret-Trenham." 

I  never  heard  a  stutterer  with  less  charity  before. 
A  clock  was  to  be  seen  over  the  head  of  the  office  clerk 
within.  I  watched  it  with  nervous  anxiety.  The  Cal 
cutta  applicant  at  length  made  an  end  of  his  story.  The 
clerk  turned  to  the  clock.  Two  minutes  were  allowed 
me. 

I  had  arranged  a  short  story.  The  clerk  took  my 
name,  residence,  address — promised  that  the  matter 
should  be  looked  after. 

I  walked  back  to  Covent  Garden,  weary,  but  satis 
fied. 

The  next  morning  the  waiter  handed  me  a  letter  ad 
dressed  properly  enough,  " ,  No.  9  Covent 

Garden." 

The  banker's  letter  had  been  delayed.  My  search 
through  the  London  office  had  been  entirely  unneces* 
sary. 


20  SEVEN  STORTES. 

Three  days  after,  and  when  I  was  engrossed  with 
Madame  Tussaud's  wax- work  and  the  Vauxhall  won 
ders,  and  had  forgotten  my  trials  of  Cornhill,  I  received 
a  huge  envelope,  under  the  seal  of  the  General  Post- 
office  of  London,  informing  me  that  no  letter  bearing 
my  address  had  been  distributed  to  the  Cornhill  carrier 
during  the  last  seven  days  ;  and  advising  me  that, 
should  such  an  one  be  received  at  the  London  Post- 
office,  it  would,  in  obedience  to  my  wishes,  be  prompt 
ly  delivered  at  No.  9  Covent  Garden  Square. 

For  aught  I  know,  the  officials  of  the  London  office 
may  be  looking  for  that  letter  still. 

I  hope  not. 

Shall  I  detach  another  memory  from  this  mosaic  of 
note  books  ? 

It  is  the  figure  of  a  ship  that  I  see,  making  her  way 
slowly,  and  lumberingly  out  of  the  Havre  docks.  The 
little  jetty  where  the  old  round  tower  stood  (they  tell 
me  it  is  gone  now)  is  crowded  with  people  ;  for  it  is  a 
day  of/^e,  and  the  idlers  have  nothing  better  to  occupy 
them  for  the  hour,  than  to  watch  the  trim  American 
vessel  as  she  hauls  out  into  the  stream.  As  we  slip 
through  the  dock  gates  there  is  a  chorus  of  voices  from 
the  quay — "  Adieu  !  "  "  Bon  voyage  !  "  and  the  emi 
grants  who  crowd  the  deck  shout  and  wave  a  reply.  A 
bearded  man  meantime,  is  counting  and  scoring  them 


INTRODUCTION.  21 

off,  and  ordering  them  below.  There  are  crates  of  cab 
bages,  huge  baskets  of  meats,  red-shir  ted  sailors  ;  and  I 
hear  from  some  quarter  the  cackle  of  poultry,  and  see  a 
cow's  head  peering  inquiringly  from  under  the  long  bout 
which  lies  over  the  cook's  galley  amidships. 

A  sooty,  wheezing  little  steamer  presently  takes  a 
tow-line  ;  the  French  pilot  with  stiff,  but  confident  Eng 
lish,  is  at  the  helm  ;  our  hawser  that  is  fast  to  the  little 
tug  stiffens,  and  we  swoop  away  from  dock  and  jetty ; 
we  brush  a  low  two-master  that  is  in  our  track — crash 
goes  her  boom,  and  our  main-yard  fouling  in  her  top 
rigging,  makes  her  mast  bend  like  a  withe ;  we  upon 
the  quarter  deck  shy  away  to  avoid  the  falling  spars ; 
there  is  a  creak  and  a  slip — French  oaths  and  English 
oaths  mingle  in  the  air ;  a  broken  brace  spins  through 
the  whizzing  blocks,  until  running  out  it  falls  with  a 
splash  into  the  water,  and  the  little  vessel  is  free. 

I  see  them  gathering  up  the  fragments  of  their  shat 
tered  boom,  and  catch  the  echo  of  an  angry  "Sacre  I" 
floating  down  the  wind.  The  jetty  grows  smaller  ;  its 
crowds  dwindle  to  a  black  and  gray  patch  of  people, 
from  among  whom  one  or  two  white  kerchiefs  are  still 
fluttering  long  and  last  adieux.  Presently  the  mainsail 
is  dropped  ;  the  little  French  pilot  screams  out — "  Hyst 
de  geeb  ! " — the  tow-rope  is  slipped,  and  we  are  battling 
with  canvas  only,  for  an  offing,  in  the  face  of  a  sharp 
Northwester. 


22  SEVEN  STORIES. 

My  companions  of  the  quarter-deck  and  after  cabin, 
are  a  young  French  lad  who  is  going  out  to  join  au 
elder  brother  established  in  New  York — the  burly  cap 
tain,  who  makes  it  a  point  of  etiquette  to  appear  the 
first  day  in  a  new  beaver  which  sits  above  his  round  red 
face  with  the  most  awkward  air  in  the  world — and  last 
a  Swiss  lady,  with  three  little  flaxen-haired  children, 
who  is  on  her  way  to  a  new  home  already  provided  for 
her  in  the  far  West,  by  a  husband  who  has  emigrated 
some  previous  year.  It  is  a  small  company  for  the 
ample  cabin  of  the  good  ship  Nimrod ;  but  she  is  re 
puted  a  dull  sailer ;  and  we  embark  at  a  season  when 
strong  westerly  winds  are  prevailing. 

The  captain  is  a  testy  man,  loving  his  power — not 
so  much  by  reason  of  any  naturally  tyrannic  disposition, 
as  by  a  long  education — from  the  day  when  he  first  bore 
the  buifetings  of  a  cabin  boy, — toward  the  belief  that 
authority  was  most  respected  when  most  despotically 
urged  ;  and  very  much  subsequent  observation  has  con 
firmed  me  in  the  opinion,  that  many  American  ship 
masters  have  brutalized  all  their  more  humane  instincts, 
by  the  same  harsh  education  of  the  sea. 

The  French  lad  was  at  that  wondering,  and  passive 
age,  which  accepted  all  the  accidents  of  his  new  experi 
ence  of  life,  as  normal  conditions  of  the  problem  he  was 
bound  to  solve ;  and  I  think  that  if  the  steward  had 
some  day  killed  the  captain  and  taken  command,  he 


INTRODUCTION.  23 

would  have  reckoned  it  only  the  ordinary  procedure  on 
American  packets,  and  have  eaten  his  dinner — of  which 
he  always  showed  high  appreciation — with  his  usual 
appetite.  . 

The  Swiss  lady  was  of  a  different  stamp ;  refined 
and  gentle  to  a  charm ;  a  Swiss  protestant,  devoted  to 
her  faith,  and  giving  type  of  a  class,  that  is  I  think 
hardly  to  be  found  out  of  Scotland,  New  England,  and 
certain  portions  of  Switzerland ; — a  class  of  women, 
with  whom  a  sense  of  Christian  duty — so  profound  as 
to  seem  almost  a  mental  instinct — holds  every  action 
and  hap  in  life  under  subordination.  I  paint  no  ascetic 
here,  who  is  lashed  to  dogmas,  and  carries  always  a 
harsh  Levitical  judgment  under  lifted  eyebrows ;  but 
one — slow  to  condemn,  yearning  to  approve  ; — true  as 
steel  to  one  faith,  but  tolerant  of  others  ; — wide  in  sym 
pathy,  and  with  a  charity  that  glows  and  spends,  be 
cause  it  cannot  contain  itself.  I  wish  there  were  more 
such. 

The  children  are  fairy  little  sprites,  educated,  as 
such  a  mother  must  needs  educate  them — to  moderate 
(heir  extravagances  of  play,  at  a  word,  and  to  cherish 
an  habitual  respect  for  those  older  than  themselves. 

The  first  mate  is  a  simpleton,  shipped  upon  the  last 
day  at  Havre  (the  old  mate  having  slipped  his  berth), 
in  whom,  it  is  soon  evident,  the  captain  has  no  confi 
dence,  and  who  becomes  a  mere  supernumerary  among 


24  SEVEN  STORIES. 

the  crew.  The  place  of  second  mate,  is  filled  by  a  sail 
or,  who  has  acted  as  third  mate  ;  the  old  '  second,'  being 
killed  not  long  before  by  a  blow  from  the  windlass. 
Among  the  crew  I  note  only  a  shy  Norwegian  who  is 
carpenter,  and  a  lithe,  powerful  mulatto, — with  a  con 
stant  protest  in  his  look  against  the  amalgamation  of 
his  blood, — who  acts  as  ship's  cook. 

There  is  a  tall  unshaven  emigrant,  who  brings  on 
deck  every  day  a  sick  infant  wrapped  in  a  filthy  blan 
ket,  out  of  which  the  little  eyes  stare  vividly,  as  if  they 
already  looked  upon  the  scenes  of  another  world.  There 
is  a  tall  singer,  in  a  red  cap — who  smokes,  as  it  seems  to 
me,  all  the  day  long ;  and  every  pleasant  evening,  when 
the  first  bitter  rocking  of  the  voyage  is  over,  he  leads 
off  a  half  score  of  voices  in  some  German  chant,  which 
carries  over  the  swaying  water  a  sweet  echo  of  the 
Rhine-land. 

There  is  a  German  girl  of  some  eighteen  summers, 
blue-eyed,  and  yellow-haired,  who  as  she  sits  upon  one 
of  the  water-casks,  with  her  knitting  in  hand,  coquettes 
with  the  tall  singer ;  she  knits — he  smokes ;  her  eyes 
are  on  her  work — his  eyes  are  upon  her  ;  she  changes 
her  needles,  and  looks — anywhere  but  at  him ;  he  fills 
his  pipe,  and  looks  (for  that  brief  interval)  anywhere 
but  at  her. 

All  these  figures  and  faces  come  back  to  me,  clear 
as  life — as  I  follow  the  limnings  of  my  musty  note-books 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  25 

Again,  on  some  day  of  storm,  I  see  the.  decks 
drenched  and  empty.  The  main  and  fore  top-sails  are 
close  reefed,  and  all  others  furled.  The  atmosphere  is 
a  wide  whirl  of  spray,  through  which  I  see  the  glitter- 
i  ag  broad  sides  of  great  blue  waves  bearing  down  upon 
us,  and  buoying  the  flimsy  ship  up  in  mid  air,  as  if  our 
gaunt  hulk,  with  all  her  live  freight,  and  all  her  creak 
ing  timbers,  were  but  a  waif  of  thistle-down.  Sailors  in 
dreadnoughts  grope  their  way  here  and  there,  clinging 
by  the  coils  that  hang  upon  the  belaying  pins,  and 
'  taughtening/  in  compliance  with  what  seems  the  need 
less  orders  of  the  testy  captain,  some  slackened  sheeJL 
or  tack.  I  see  the  deck  slipping  from  under  me  as  I 
walk,  or  bringing  me  to  sudden,  dreary  pause,  as  the  bow 
lifts  to  some  great  swell  of  water.  And  below,  when 
I  grope  thither,  and  shut  the  state-room  door  to  wind 
ward  with  a  terrible  lift,  I  sink  back  with  one  hand 
fast  in  the  berth-curtains,  and  the  other  in  the  bottom  of 
the  washbowl.  I  reflect  a  moment,  and  try  to  catch  the 
gauge  of  the  ship's  movements ;  but  while  I  reflect,  a 
great  plunge  flings  me  down  against  the  laboring  door  ; 
I  grasp  the  knob  ;  I  grasp  the  bed  curtains  which  stretch 
conveniently  toward  me.  The  door  flies  open,  the  cur 
tains  fly  back,  and  I  am  thrown  headlong  into  my  berth, 

There,  I  can  at  least  brace  myself;  now  I  am 
wedged  one  way ;  now  I  am  wedged  the  other.  The 
stifling  odor  of  the  damp  clothes,  the  swaying  curtains, 

OF   THK 


UNIVERSITY  1) 

— 


26  &EVEX  STORIES. 

the  poor  lamp  toiling  in  its  socket  to  find  some  level, 
are  very  wearisome  and  sickening.  I  hear  noises  from 
neighbor  berths  that  are  no  way  comforting ;  I  hear 
feeble  calls  for  the  steward  ; — bah  !  shall  I  read  these 
notes  only  to  revive  the  odium  of  sea-sickness  ? 

Again,  I  see  the  sun  on  a  great  reach  of  level 
water,  that  has  only  a  wavy  tremor  in  it — as  peaceful 
as  the  bowing  and  the  lifting  of  grain  in  the  wind. 
The  yellow-haired  German  is  at  her  knitting  ;  her  red- 
capped  admirer  is  filling  his  pipe.  Our  quarter-deck's 
company  are  all  above  board,  and  luxuriating  in  the 
charming  weather — when  a  lank,  hatless,  bearded  man 
strides  with  a  quaint  woollen  bundle  in  his  arms  to  the 
lee  gangway,  and  i  plash' — goes  his  burden  upon  the 
water.  It  is  a  sudden  and  sorry  burial ;  for  it  is  the 
dead  infant,  whose  eyes  looked  beyond  us,  three  days 
ago.  I  see  the  Swiss  lady,  with  her  hands  met  to 
gether  ;  and  her  little  ones,  when  they  learn  what  has 
befallen,  grow  pale,  and  leave  their  play,  and  whisper 
together,  and  look  over  astern  where  the  white  bundle 
goes  whisking  under  the  inky  blue. 

Even  the  French  lad  bestirs  himself  into  asking 
what  it  may  be  ? 

"  A  child — dead — that's  the  body." 

"  Sacr-re  /"  and  he,  taking  his  cigar  from  his  mouth, 
looks  after  it  too, — shadowy  now,  and  fading  in  the 
depths.  There  are  times  when  the  weakest  of  us,  as 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  2  7 

well  as  the  strongest,  eagerly  strain  our  eyes  and  oui 
thought  toward  that  great  mystery  of  Death. 

It  is  but  a  shabby  funeral,  a8  I  said ;  no  prayer 
gave  the  silent  one  of  the  Swiss  lady.  God  only  knows 
what  worshipful  or  tender  thought  of  the  child's  future, 
was  in  the  mind  of  the  emigrant  father,  as  he  tossed 
the  little  package  from  him  into  the  sea.  He  staggered 
as  he  walked  back  to  the  hatchway,  to  climb  below ; 
but  it  may  have  been  only  from  the  motion  of  the  ship. 

After  this — it  was  perhaps  a  matter  of  two  days — • 
I  remember  a  somewhat  worthier  burial.  It  is  an  old 
man  of  seventy  (they  said)  takes  the  plunge.  He  has 
been  ailing  from  the  day  of  sailing ; — going  with  his 
daughter  and  grandchild  to  try  the  new  land.  She  is 
chief-mourner.  There  is  a  plank  the  carpenter  has 
brought ;  and  he  has  placed  one  end  upon  the  bulwarks 
and  the  other  upon  a  cask ;  they  lay  presently  a  long 
canvas  bundle  upon  it ;  the  old  dead  man  is  safely 
sewed  in,  with  a  cannon  shot  at  his  feet.  Some  one 
among  the  emigrants  reads  a  guttural  prayer.  The 
captain  pops  out  an  "Amen !"  that  sounds  like  a  mili 
tary  command ;  and  thereupon  the  carpenter,  with  the 
second-mate,  tilt  the  plank  ;  and  away  the  old  nmn  slides 
with  a  sullen,  heavy  splash.  The  daughter  rushes  to 
the  gangway,  with  a  scream — as  if  they  had  done  him 
wrong,  and  looks  yearningly  after  him.  If  she  saw 
anything,  it  was  only  the  gray  sack  goiug  down — fulJ 


28  SEVEN  STORIES. 

three  fathoms  under,  before  our  stern  had  licked  the 
little  whirlpool  smooth,  where  he  sank. 

I  observe  after  some  days,  that  the  captain  is  grow 
ing  more  crotchety  and  testy ;  it  irks  him  to  share  the 
night  watches  as  he  does,  with  only  the  plucky  little 
second-mate,  who,  though  sailorly  enough  in  his  air, 
has  I  notice  a  very  awkward  handling  to  his  sextant ; 
but  he  makes  up  for  his  lack  of  the  science  of  naviga 
tion  with  a  pestilent  shower  of  suggestions  to  the  helms 
man  :  "A  pint  nigher  the  wind!"  "Kip  her  full!" 
"  Now  you're  off,  you  lubber ! "  Thus  I  hear  him, 
hour  after  hour,  as  he  paces  off  his  night  watches  upon 
the  deck  above  my  head. 

I  look  back  upon  a  sunny  noon  shining  down  upon 
the  vessel,  and  upon  the  little  Swiss  children,  who  have 
forgotten  the  dead  baby,  and  are  rollicking  up  and  down 
the  decks  with  glee.  The  mother  seated  by  the  taff- 
rail,  with  a  book  under  her  eye — is  not  reading,  but 
looking  over  the  page  at  that  romp  of  her  little  ones — 
to  which  I  have  contributed  my  own  quota,  by  joining 
in  their  play  of  "  Puss  in  the  corner." 

Suddenly  there  is  a  swift,  angry  outcry  from  the 
waist  of  the  ship — the  sound  of  a  quick  blow — a  scuf 
fle,  and  loud  shouts.  The  little  children  cower  away 
like  frighted  deer,  and  the  mother  swoops  forward, 
her  face  full  of  terror,  to  give  them  the  protection  of 
those  outstretched  arms.  I  step  to  the  little  bridge 


INTRODUCTION.  29 

that  reaches  from  the  quarter  deck  to  the  long  boat. 
There  is  an  excited,  clamorous  group  of  sailors  and  of 
emigrants  below  me  ;  in  the  middle  of  them  is  the  cap 
tain,  hatless  and  panting,  and  with  his  hand  streaming 
with  blood  ;  the  tall  mulatto  cook  confronts  him,  hig 
face  livid  with  rage.  I  learn  about  the  happening  of  it 
all,  afterward.  It  seems  that  the  captain  had  given  an 
order,  which  the  cook  has  chosen  either  to  neglect,  or  to 

treat  with  indifference.    "  But  by ,  sir,  on  my  ship, 

sir,  I'll  have  my  orders  obeyed  :  " — and  thereupon,  he 
has  seized  a  billet  of  wood  (an  ugly  stick,  I  remember,) 
and  rushed  upon  the  mulatto.  The  blow  it  seems  only 
stunned  the  man  for  a  moment,  for  he  has  rallied  so 
far  as  to  give  an  answering  blow ;  and  as  the  captain 
springs  forward  to  seize  him  by  the  throat,  he  has 
caught  his  hand  in  his  teeth  (they  are  as  white  and 
sharp  as  a  leopard's)  and  nearly  torn  away  his  thumb. 
There  is  a  manifest  show  of  sympathy  with  the  muti 
neer,  on  the  part  of  the  sailors  ;  but  the  instinct  of  obe 
dience  is  strong — strong  even  in  the  culprit ;  for  he 
makes  no  resistance  now,  as  the  carpenter  and  second 
officer  place  the  irons  on  his  wrists.  And  presently  he 
is  safe  in  the  meat  house,  under  the  jolly  boat ;  at  least 
we  think  so — and  the  captain,  as  well — who  coolly 
pockets  the  key. 

It  is  a  sad  break-in  upon  our  quiet  life  of  the  decks  ; 
we  are  as  yet  only  mid-way  over  the  ocean,  and  a  war 


30  SEVEN  STORIES. 

is  broc  ding  on  shipboard  ;  the  sailors  go  sulkily  to  their 
tasks  ;  they  even  bandy  words  with  the  doughty  second 
officer.  Who  knows  what  course  the  helmsman  may 
give  the  ship  to-night  ? 

The  poor  Swiss  lady  is  in  an  agony  of  apprehension, 
with  those  frighted  little  ones  demanding  explanations 
she  cannot  give.  "  And  what  if  he  had  killed  monsieur 
le  capitaine  f — ah  par  exemple !  Et  comme  il  etaitferoce  I 
je  I'ai  vu — moi." 

I  am  with  the  watch  till  midnight ;  all  is  quiet ;  I 
leave  the  captain  on  deck  with  his  arm  in  its  sling — not 
the  less  testy,  for  that  mangled  hand  of  his.  At  four, 
he  goes  below  again  (so  they  tell  me) ,  but  I  am  sleep 
ing  at  last ;  yet  only  for  a  little  while,  and  in  a  dis 
turbed  way. 

At  six,  I  hear  a  sudden  rush  of  feet  over  my  head, 
and  directly  after  a  leap  down  the  companion  way ; 
a  man  bursts  into  the  captain's  room  next  me ;  I  am 
wide  awake  now. 

"  For  God's  sake !  quick,  captain ;  the  door  is 
broken  down,  and  the  man's  out — irons  off;  they  say 
he's  armed." 

I  dress  hurriedly;  but  the  captain  is  before  me, 
and  I  hear  the  click  of  his  pistol-lock  before  he  goe* 
out. 

I  am  all  ears  now  for  the  least  sound. 

"  There's  the  scoundrel  I  quick  I" 


INTRODUCTION.  81 

Whose  voice  is  that  ?  A  tempest  of  oaths  succeeds, 
and  now — crack  ! — crack  ! — two  pistol  shots,  and  a 
hoavy  fall  upon  the  deck.  I  rush  up  the  companion 
way,  and  run  to  the  quarter  rail ;  a  half-dressed  swarm 
of  emigrants  are  beating  off  the  sailors,  and  stamp  fu 
riously  upon  the  mulatto  who  is  struggling,  and  writh 
ing  upon  the  deck. 

The  carpenter  and  second  officer  are  assisting  the 
captain  to  rise,  and  he  staggers  aft — not  shot,  but  hor 
ribly  bruised  and  scalded  about  the  head.  He  has 
fired  two  shots — both,  strangely  enough,  missed  his 
man ;  and  if  the  emigrants  had  not  been  near,  the  en 
raged  cook,  armed  as  he  was  with  a  heavy  iron  skillet, 
would  have  made  an  end  of  him. 

The  mutineer  is  in  irons  again,  and  is  presently  led 
aft  to  the  taffrail,  that  he  may  have  no  communica 
tion  with  the  sailors.  But  it  is  a  small  ship,  after  all, 
in  which  to  pack  away  so  resolute  and  determined  a 
mutineer,  against  all  chance  of  connivance.  The  man 
is  suffering  fearfully  from  that  stamping  of  the  deck  ;— - 
no  creature  could  be  more  inoffensive  than  the  poor 
fellow  now.  I  venture  a  private  talk  with  him,  and  a 
show  of  some  friendliness  touches  him  to  the  quick.— 
Aye,  there  are  those  who  will  shiver  and  groan  (he  told 
me  this)  when  they  hear  that  he  has  worn  manacles 
and  must  go  to  prison  (he  knows  that)  ;  his  father  is 
alive  and  an  honest  working-man, — God  help  him  !  but 


32  83VEN  STORIES. 

his  father's  son  never  was  struck  a  blow  before.     u  1 
wish  to I'd  killed  him  V9 

We  made  a  common  duty  on  the  quarter  deck  of 
dressing  the  captain's  head,  and  of  keeping  by  him  dur 
ing  his  watches.  A  very  dreary  time  it  was. 

The  carpenter  reports  certain  oak  plank,  with  which 
presently  he  sets  to  work  upon  a  cell  for  the  culprit,  be 
tween  decks,  among  the  emigrants ;  and  there  he  was 
lodged  next  day.  But  the  sailors  found  their  way  to 
him,  we  learned  ;  duty  was  more  slackly  performed  than 
ever,  and  a  thousand  miles  or  more  still  between  us  and 
our  Western  harbor.  I  felt  sure  that  if  he  escaped 
again,  the  prisoner  would  throttle  the  captain,  as  a 
wild  beast  might,  and  kill  him  out  of  hand.  The  sec 
ond  officer  beside  being  a  doubtful  navigator,  had  no 
mettle  in  him  to  keep  in  awe  that  sullen  company  of 
sailors  ;  I  think  they  would  have  tossed  him  overboard  ; 
and  we,  of  the  quarter  deck,  I  think  were  not  looked 
upon  with  great  favor.  Even  the  little  children  took 
on  a  gloomy,  apprehensive  air,  which  they  may  well 
have  caught  from  the  distraught  and  anxious  manner 
of  the  mother. 

Week  follows  week,  and  still  the  winds  baffle  us : 
we  count  thirty-five  days,  and  six  hundred  miles  are  to 
be  run  :  we  listen  nervously  for  all  unusual  night- 
sounds  coming  from  below.  The  solitary  pair  of  pis 
tols  belonging  to  the  whole  quarter-deck  company  are 


INTRODUCTION.  33 

charged  with  four  heavy  slugs  each.  The  captain 
meantime  is  threatened  with  erysipelas,  and  is  com 
pelled  to  keep  mostly  on  deck  ;  he  fairly  dozes  upon  his 
long  watches,  while  the  French  lad  or  myself  keep 
guard. 

"  God  send  good  wind ! " — how  we  pray  that  prayer ; 
but  none  so  fervently,  I  am  sure,  as  our  Swiss  friend, 
with  her  little  jewels  clustering  about  her. 

I  see  the  same  good  ship  Niuirod,  stanch  and  safe, 
sailing  up  through  the  Narrows,  with  a  laughing  sun 
playing  on  the  shores,  and  three  laughing  and  rejoicing 
children — looking  eagerly  out,  at  the  strange  sights — at 
the  forts  that  flank  us — at  the  broad  bay  that  blazes  in 
the  front — at  the  islands  that  sleep  upon  its  bosom — at 
our  city  spires  that  glitter  along  the  horizon. 

I  see  the  manacled  man  brought  up  from  below  the 
hatches — sallow  and  with  cavernous  cheeks,  and  some 
thing  dangerous  in  his  eye  still ;  he  is  led  away  between 
two  officers  to  jail — to  prison  ; — three  years  of  it,  the 
papers  said.  The  French  lad  has  eaten  his  last  lunch, 
and  comes  upon  the  deck  a  perfect  D'Orsay  in  his  equip 
ment.  Now,  he  must  have  grown  out  of  my  knowl 
edge  ;  ten — twelve — fifteen  years — will  have  given  him 
— if  dyspepsia  did  not  make  him  a  victim — the  figure 
of  an  alderman.  I  trust  he  takes  life  serenely. 

Is  the  captain  among  the  living  ?  Does  anybody 
answer  ?  And  does  he  keep  the  same  rotund  face  and 
2* 


34  SEVEN  STORIES. 

form,   and  affect  the  same  preposterous  beaver  on  days 
of  embarkation  which  he  wore  in  the  old  times — 

"  as  he  sailed — as  he  sailed  "  ? 

And  tne  Swiss  lady  ?  She  found  her  home — I 
know  that — with  all  her  flock ;  from  her  own  hand,  I 
have  it : 

— "  Nous  y  entrons  avec  courage  et  confiance,  nous 
attentons  a  Celui  qui  apromis  d'etre  avec  nousjusqu'a  la 
Jin.  Son  Amour  est  le  seul  qaipuisse  suffire  a  tous  nos 
besoins"  The  same  brave  Christian  spirit!  the  same 
hearty  benevolence  too  :  —  "JPuissiez-vous,  mon  cher 
Monsieur,  Veprouver  [son  Amour]  au  plus  profond  de 
votre  etre  a  fin  que  vous  soyez  keureux,  selon  le  vosu  de 

"  Votre  Amie." 

Long  years,  and  I  heard  nothing  more  :  at  length, 
upon  a  certain  summer's  day,  I  met  one  who  knew  and 
appreciated  her  sterling  worth — her  tender,  womanly 
nature. 

"  And  how  is  it  with  Madame  in  the  new  home  ?" 

"  Monsieur  ! elle  est  au  del  I " 

I  believed  him — with  all  my  heart. 


INTRODUCTION.  85 

Thus  far,  and  with  a  pleasant  recollection  of  old 
scenes,  I  have  but  filled  in  the  little  skeleton  notes  that 
meet  my  eye  in  the  musty  memoranda  of  travel. 
Through  all  the  night,  I  might  plague  my  brain,  and 
vex  my  heart,  with  this  revival  of  scenes  and  characters, 
half  forgotten,  but  which,  when  they  come  with  that 
fresh  and  airy  presence,  that  the  small  hours  c  ayont 
the  twal*  alone  can  give  them,  cheat  me  into  a  glow 
or  a  tenderness  of  feeling,  of  which  next  morning  I  ain 
ashamed. 

Yet  why  ? 

Our  life  is  not  all  lived  by  day-light.  It  is  not  all 
summed  up  in  what  we  do,  or  in  what  we  shall  do ; 
what  we  think  and  what  we  remember,  have  their  place 
in  the  addition.  Therefore  when  night  comes  again, 
and  when  reading  and  severer  work  is  done,  I  rather 
incline  to  build  away,  upon  the  scaffoldings  which  old 
notes  and  old  letters  may  afford — story  by  story :  and 
it  is  precisely  this,  which  I  have  been  doing  here  ;  until 
at  last  I  have  a  book,  Seven  Stories  high — to  which  this 
introduction  shall  serve  for  Basement. 


FIRST  STOET: 


WET    DAY    AT    AN    IRISH 


FIRST  STORY: 


Wet  Day  at  an  Irish  Inn. 

ON  the  24th  of  December,  18 — ,  I  woke  up  at 
half  past  five  in  the  old  town  of  Armagh,  near 
the  north-east  coast  of  Ireland.  The  day  was  lowery, 
the  inn  at  which  I  was  quartered,  dirty  and  unattrac 
tive  ;  my  lonely  breakfast  in  the  coffee-room  upon  half- 
cooked  chops  and  cold  muffins — dismal  in  the  extreme  ; 
so  that  I  determined  to  brave  all  chances  of  the  weather, 
and  book  myself  for  an  outside  place  (all  the  insides  be 
ing  taken  from  Dungannon)  on  the  coach  for  Drogheda. 
This  left  me,  however,  a  spare  half  hour  in  which  to 
ramble  over  the  dreary  old  cathedral  of  Armagh,  which 
my  usher  assured  me  "  all  the  gintlemen  allowed  to  be 
the  oldest  in  the  kingdom  ;  "  and  another  half  hour,  for 
an  examination  of  the  unfinished  arches  of  the  new 


40  SEVEN  STORIES. 

cathedral,  which  the  same  veracious  usher  affirmed; 
would  be  "  the  foinest  building  in  all  Europe." 

I  hope  it  is  finished  before  this,  and  that  under  its 
roof,  my  Irish  cicerone  may  have  repented  of  his  sins 
of  exaggeration. 

The  Drogheda  mail-coach  in  those  days  passed 
through  the  towns  of  Newry  and  Dundalk ;  and  long 
before  we  had  reached  the  first  of  these,  which  we  did 
at  about  eleven  of  the  forenoon,  the  cold  mists  had  given 
way  to  a  pelting  rain,  and  I  had  determined  to  give  up 
my  fare,  and  risk  such  hospitality  as  an  Irish  inn  would 
afford.  Black's  coach  tavern  in  Newry  did  not  promise 
large  cheer ;  the  front  was  dingy ;  the  street  narrow ; 
the  entrance  hall  low  and  begrimed  with  dirt  and  smoke. 
Patrick  took  my  portmanteau  to  number  six,  and  I  beg 
ged  for  a  private  parlor  with  fire,  where  I  might  dry  my 
wet  clothes  at  my  leisure.  A  gaunt  woman  in  black, 
not  uncommunicative,  and  who  appeared  to  unite  in 
herself  the  three-fold  offices  of  landlady,  maid,  and 
waiter,  showed  me  presently  to  the  "  Wellington  "  on 
the  second  floor ;  and  Patrick  was  directed  to  kindle  a 
fire  in  the  rusty  grate. 

The  apartment  was  not  such  an  one  as  I  would  have 
chosen  for  a  merry  Christmas  eve.  For  furniture,  there 
was  a  faded  and  draggled  carpet,  a  few  cumbrous  old 
chairs  set  off  with  tattered  brocade,  an  ancient  piano  in 
the  corner,  a  round  dining  table)  whose  damask  covei 


WET  DAT  AT  AN  IRISH  INN.  41 

showed  a  multitude  of  ink-stains,)  as  well  as  a  "Dublin 
Mail"  of  the  last  week,  and  a  County  Gazetteer.  The 
solitary  window  was  hung  with  sombre  curtains  of 
woollen  stuff,  and  by  great  good  fortune  looked  directly 
upon  the  main  street  of  Newry.  At  least  then,  I  might 
count  upon  the  solace  of  studying  the  passers  by,  and 
possibly  my  opposite  neighbors. 

The  first  object,  however,  was  to  dry  my  wet 
clothes ;  nor  was  this  easy ;  the  coals  were  damp  and 
did  not  burn  freely ;  the  chimney  was  foul,  and  there 
was  a  strong  bituminous  aroma  presently  floating 
through  the  room.  But  I  met  the  situation  courage 
ously,  thrust  an  old  chair  fairly  between  the  jambs,  sat 
myself  bestride  it,  unfolded  the  yellow  "Dublin  Mail" 
over  the  back,  and  entered  valorously  upon  a  conquest 
of  the  twenty-four  hours,  which  lay  between  me  and  the 
next  up-coach  for  Drogheda.  The  "  Dublin  Mail"  was 
dull ;  there  was  a  long  discussion  of  the  Maynooth  Col 
lege  and  its  regimen ;  but  who  cared  for  Maynooth  ? 
There  was  "  important  news  from  Calcutta,"  but  I  had 
read  it  in  Liverpool  a  week  before  :  there  was  a  column 
upon  American  affairs,  in  the  course  of  which  a  careful 
consideration  of  the  military  career  of  General  Fill- 
more — this  was  interesting,  but  short.  There  was  a 
murder  or  two  mentioned  in  retired  country  districts,  of 
landlords,  or  bailiffs,  neither  of  which  possessed  much 
novelty ;  there  was  a  warm  editorial,  ending  with  a 


42  SEVEN  STORIES. 

resonant  period  about  "  College  Green,"  and  a  litf/* 
poem  in  a  corner,  written  to  the  air  of  "  Eirie  go 
bragh."  I  lay  down  the  "Mail"  and  took  up  tho 
Gazetteer.  I  read,  and  felt  my  coat ;  and  read  again— 
sometimes  thumbing  the  sweaty  leaves  backward,  some 
times  forward — in  such  unceasing  way,  however,  that 
before  my  clothes  were  fairly  dry,  I  could  have  passed 
an  examination  upon  the  condition  and  prospects  of 
Newry,  and  Armagh,  and  Portadown. 

After  this  recreation  by  the  grate,  I  betook  myself 
to  the  window.  The  rain  was  still  falling  in  torrents. 
Over  opposite  was  a  watch-maker's  shop,  with  a  curi 
ously-faced  clock  over  the  door-way,  which  I  am  sure 
must  have  hung  there  a  score  of  years,  and  I  venture  to 
eay,  it  is  hanging  there  yet.  Within  the  window  of  this 
shop,  which  was  full  of  gewgaws,  I  caught  glimpses  of 
an  old  "  Heriot,"  with  a  magnifier  thrust  into  the  socket 
of  his  eye,  and  squinting  curiously  over  a  medley  of 
brazen  cog-wheels ;  he  looked,  for  all  the  world,  as  a 
watch-maker  might  do,  in  a  country-town  of  New  Eng 
land  ;  and  I  dare  say,  if  I  had  stepped  over  to  him  with 
ir  y  watch  to  mend,  he  would  have  popped  it  open  in  the 
same  unvarying  way — glanced  at  the  trade-mark — 
squinted  at  the  cogs,  and  thrust  in  some  long  steel  feeler, 
and  closed  it  with  a  pop,  and  removed  his  one-horned 
eye,  and  hung  the  watch  at  the  end  of  a  row  of  invalid 
watches,  and  promised  it  on  Saturday,  and  had  it  ready 
on  the  Thursday  following. 


WET  DAY  AT  AN  IRISH  INN.  43 

A  little  farther  down  the  street,  was  the  establish* 
ment  of  an  Irish  milliner ;  its  lower  windows  so  bediz 
ened  with  bonnets  and  haberdashery,  that  I  could  see 
nothing  beside — except  once  a  pair  of  black  eyes  peep 
ing  out  after  a  carriage  that  whirled  by  in  the  rain. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  goldsmith's,  was  the  shop  of  a 
baker  and  pastry  cook,  which  was  decked  prettily  with 
evergreens,  and  within  which  I  saw  a  stout  woman 
with  arms  akimbo,  staring  out  as  gloomily  as  myself  at 
the  rain. 

Over  the  goldsmith's  shop  was  a  window,  at  which 
I  saw  from  time  to  time  a  pair  of  little  rosy-faced  girls, 
who  may  have  been  seven  or  eight ;  and  between  them, 
and  seemingly  on  most  familiar  terms,  a  tall  Newfound 
land  dog,  who  appeared  as  much  interested  as  them 
selves,  in  occasional,  furtive  glances  upon  the  reeking 
street.  Once  or  twice  too,  a  simply  dressed  young 
woman  of  uncertain  age,  who  may  have  been  the  moth 
er  of  the  children,  showed  herself  at  the  same  window. 

After  making  these  observations,  and  pacing  up  the 
parlor  once  or  twice,  I  betook  myself  again  to  the 
Gazetteer.  Twelve,  one,  two, — sounded  from  the  clock 
over  the  mantel :  two  hours  yet  to  my  dinner. 

Again  I  turned  to  the  street  for  relief:  a  little  girl, 
in  close  hood,  was  stepping  out  of  the  door-way  beside 
the  jeweller's  shop,  and,  with  her,  the  dog  I  had  seen 
above  stairs,  with  a  basket  in  his  mouth ;  away  they 


44  SEVEN  STORIES. 

went,  trotting  familiarly  out  of  sight  down  the  street , 
this  at  least  was  an  incident  for  me  ;  and  I  sat  myself 
composedly  down  to  watch  for  their  return.  The  little 
girl's  mate  in  the  window  opposite,  seemed  bent  upon 
the  same  object.  After  twenty  minutes  perhaps,  dog 
and  child  came  trotting  back,  thoroughly  drenched  ; — the 
dog  still  carrying  the  basket,  now  apparently  weighty 
with  some  burthen.  And  the  servant  happening  m  at 
the  moment  to  look  after  my  fire,  I  called  her  attention 
to  the  drenched  couple,  as  they  entered  the  door-way 
opposite. 

"  Oh,  aye,  surr,  it's  a  good  baste,  is  that ;  he  keeps 
by  the  poor  little  craythurs  night  and  day ;  it's  very 
poor  they  must  be,  and  their  mither's  a  lone  woman ; 
she's  been  opposite  a  matter  of  three  months  now  in  a 
little  room  she's  rinted  o'  the  gold-bater  ;  it's  not  much 
in  the  way  of  niddie-work  she'll  be  foinding ;  the  Lord 
knows  how  the  poor  craythur  lives." 

By  this  time  the  pair  had  returned  to  their  cham 
ber,  as  I  judged  by  the  movements  of  the  little  girl  who 
had  been  stationed  at  the  window.  Very  likely  she  was 
dancing  over  the  contents  of  the  basket. 

"  Perhaps  the  dog  has  brought  them  their  Christmas 
dinner,"  said  I. 

"  And  shure,  surr,  I  hope  he  may  :  but  it's  a  sorry 
dinner  they  have  most  days." 

A  sudden  thought  struck  me.    I  was  out  of  all  reach 


WET  DAT  AT  AN  IRISH  INN.  45 

of  the  little  Christmas  charities  of  home  ;  what  if  I  were 
to  turn  a  few  pennies  to  the  cheer  of  my  little  neighbors 
over  the  way  ?  A  charitable  thought  is  best  closed 
with  at  once :  it  is  too  apt  to  balk  us,  if  we  wait :  so  I 
pulled  out  a  five  shilling  piece,  and  said,  "  My  good 
woman,  you  see  the  cake-shop  yonder  ?  " 

"  And  shure  I  do,  surr." 

"  Would  you  be  good  enough  to  step  over  and  buy 
a  couple  of  little  Christmas  cakes,  with  a  sprig  of  holly 
in  each  of  them,  and  take  them  over  to  the  two  poor 
girls  opposite,  and  tell  them  that  a  stranger  who  is  rain- 
bound  in  the  opposite  inn,  wishes  them  a  merry  Christ 
mas  for  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Shure  I  will,  surr  ;  and  the  Lord  bless  you  for't." 

There  was  something  in  the  manner  of  the  gaunt 
waiting  woman,  that  forbade  my  doubting  her :  still  I 
watched — saw  her  brave  the  rain — saw  her  appear  with 
the  package,  saw  her  enter  the  low  passage  opposite, 
and  presently  the  two  little  girls  came  romping  to  the 
window,  and  kissed  their  hands  to  me  ;  while  the  mother 
appears  for  a  moment  with  a  modest  bow  of  acknowl 
edgment. 

I  think  the  fire  burned  more  cheerfully  after  this ; 
the  room  seemed  to  wear  a  new  aspect;  my  clothes 
were  thoroughly  dry ;  my  appetite  was  ripening  for  din 
ner  ;  and  I  read  the  little  poem  in  the  corner  of  the 
"  Dublin  Mail"  to  the  air  of  "  Eirie  go  bragh"  with  a 
good  deal  of  kindliness. 


46  SEVEN  STORIES. 

The  waiting  woman,  with  grateful  messages,  had 
oome  and  gone,  and  I  was  deep  in  Maynooth  again, 
when  my  attention  was  called  by  the  rattle  of  a  carriage 
in  the  street.  It  had  apparently  come  to  a  stop  near  by. 
I  strolled  to  the  window  to  see  how  it  might  be.  Sure 
enough,  over  opposite  was  an  Irish  jaunting  car  all 
inud-bespattered,  two  portmanteaus  upon  it,  and  a  stout, 
ruddy-faced  man  in  mackintosh,  and  in  close-fitting 
skull  cap,  just  alighting.  He  stepped  into  the  gold 
smith's  shop,  apparently  to  make  some  inquiries — seem 
ed  satisfied  on  the  instant — returned  to  the  car,  ordered 
off  the  portmanteaus,  and  pulled  out  his  purse — a  well- 
filled  one  I  judged — to  pay  the  driver.  The  little  girls 
I  noticed  were  pressing  their  faces  against  the  glass 
and  gazing  down— once  or  twice  looking  back  as  if  to 
summon  their  mother  to  the  scene.  She  also  appeared 
presently  (it  was  just  as  the  drenched  traveller  had  paid 
his  fare,  and  had  raised  his  face),  and  looking  earnestly 
for  a  moment — drooped  away,  and  fell,  beside  the  win 
dow.  There  could  be  no  doubt  that  the  woman  had 
fainted ;  there  was  terror  in  the  faces  of  the  children. 

I  rang  the  bell  hastily,  and  stepping  to  the  door  as 
the  waitress  came,  I  said,  "  My  good  woman,  there's 
trouble  over  the  way ;  the  mother  of  those  children  has 
just  swooned  by  the  window,  and  there's  no  one  to  care 
for  her." 

She  came  forward  1o  look  out,  with  true  womanly 


WET  DAY  AT  AN  IRISH  INN.  47 

curiosity,  though  there  was  no  hope  of  seeing  what  the 
actual  trouble  might  be.  There  was  a  vain  glance  at 
the  opposite  chamber,  then  her  eye  fastened  on  the 
newly-arrived  traveller,  who  was  busy  yet  with  his 
portmanteaus. 

"  Good  God,"  said  she,  in  consternation,  "  it's 
Moike  Carlingford  !  Yes,  by  the  powers,  it's  Moike," 
and  she  clasped  her  hands  together,  in  what  I  thought  a 
most  melodramatic  way  for  a  woman  of  her  age,  and 
presence. 

"  It's  naught  but  Moike,"  said  she  again,  as  if  ap 
pealing  to  me.  "  He  was  niver  a  bit  lost  then,  and  it's 
he,  as  shure  as  iver  I  live." 

"  And  pray  who  may  Mike  Carlmgford  be  ?"  said 
I,  thinking  the  matter  was  getting  a  touch  of  humor ; 
but  her  answer  brought  me  to  a  dead  pause. 

"  Moike  ?  why  Moike  is  a  murderer  !  It's  not  for 
me  to  say  it,  but  it's  the  law ;  and  I  knew  him  as  well 
as  iver  I  knew  my  brither  before  he  wint  away,  and 
fell  to  bad  ways ;  and  he  wint  down  by  Belfast,  and 
there  was  an  old  gintleman  that  lived  there — it's  near 
eight  years  agone — and  Moike  would  marry  his  daugh 
ter  or  his  niece,  and  the  gintleman  wouldn't  hearken, 
and  Moike  bate  the  old  gintleman  a  bit  roughly,  and 
Moike  dropped  his  badge  in  the  bush,  Trhere  they 
found  the  old  gint's  body,  and  he  got  away,  and  they 
followed  him  to  Cork,  and  he  took  ship,  and  the  ship 


48  SEVEN  STORIES. 

was  lost  and  all  iboard,  and  by  my  sowl  it's  Moike 
again  yonder,  and  he'll  be  caught,  and  be  hung ;  and 
I'm  sorry  for  Moike  ! " 

There  was  a  good  swift  Irish  current  in  her  story, 
and  at  the  end  of  it,  she  rushed  away  to  spread  the 
news  below  stairs.  Meantime  the  newly  arrived  per 
sonage  opposite  had  passed  in  with  his  luggage  :  there 
was  nothing  more  to  be  observed  at  the  window  over 
the  goldsmith's  shop :  children,  dog,  and  mother  had 
alike  disappeared.  I  fancied  I  heard  from  time  to  time, 
an  excri  g  discussion  going  on  below  stairs  in  the  inn  ; 
but  who  were  the  parties  to  it,  or  what  was  the  burden, 
I  could  not  determine. 

The  "Dublin  Mail"  and  the  Gazetteer  had  now 
lost  their  interest:  Mike  the  murderer  had  even  driven 
the  fainting  woman  opposite,  wholly  out  of  my  mind. 
I  could  not  for  a  moment  doubt  that  there  was  some 
connection  between  the  two  parties  of  which  the  talka 
tive  landlady  was  ignorant.  B^t  was  the  mother's 
emotion  the  result  of  fear  ?  Had  this  stout  Mike  re 
appeared  to  commit  new  crimes  ?  I  cannot  say  that  I 
had  the  least  apprehension  :  the  joll/  face  of  the  new 
comer,  with  the  iron-gray  whiskers,  and  tbe  sun-burnt 
cheeks,  could  no  more  be  associated  with  the  idea  of 
murder,  than  the  Christmas  season.  The  good  woman 
of  the  inn  must  be  laboring  under  some  strange  mis 
take.  Yet  what  right  after  all,  had  I — a  passing  trav 
eller — to  doubt  her  earnest  assertion  ? 


WET  DAY  AT  AN  IRISH  INN.  49 

My  wet  day  at  the  Irish  inn  was  gaining  an  interest 
that  I  could  not  have  believed  possible.  Time  and 
again  I  looked  over  the  way,  but  no  living  creature  ap 
peared  at  the  window.  Presently  I  observed  the  stumpy 
figure  of  my  landlord  moving  across  the  street,  where 
he  entered  the  shop  of  the  watch-maker,  and  opened  an 
earnest  conference  ;  at  least  I  judged  as  much  by  his 
extraordinary  gesticulations,  and  by  the  nervous  rapid 
ity  with  which  the  old  Heriot  pushed  aside  his  cog 
wheels,  and  came  fairly  around  his  little  counter  to  talk 
more  freely  with  the  visitor.  I  inferred  from  what  I 
had  seen  thus  far,  that  Mike  Carlingford  was  a  character 
at  one  time  well  known  hereabout,  that  an  evident  mys 
tery  of  some  kind  attached  to  his  history,  and  that  the 
host  had  taken  over  the  suspicions  of  the  mistress  to 
compare  with  the  observations  of  the  old  shop-keeper ; 
I  inferred  farther  from  the  resolute  shakings  of  the 
head  of  this  latter  (which  I  plainly  saw  through  his 
glass  door)  that  the  watch-mender  had  either  not  ob 
served  closely  the  features  of  the  new-comer  (a  thing 
scarcely  possible),  or  that  he  doubted  wholly  the  sus 
picions  of  the  acting  landlady. 

My  host  came  back  in  an  apparently  disturbed  and 
thoughtful  mood.  It  still  lacked  an  hour  to  my  dinner, 
and  the  rain  was  unabated ;  a  walk  about  the  old  town, 
which  I  should  have  been  charmed  to  take,  was  not  to 
be  thought  of.  What  if  I  were  to  make  some  excuse 


50  SEVEN  STORIE& 

to  step  below  to  the  tap-room  and  engage  the  host  him 
self  in  a  little  talk,  that  might  throw  some  light  on  my 
opposite  neighbors  ?  No  sooner  thought,  than  done. 
The  stumpy  little  man  was  abundantly  communicative. 
He  had  been  engaged  in  the  tap,  and  had  not  seen  tha 
"  car"  drive  up.  "  Meesus  Flaherty,  she  that  okerpies 
persition  as  landleddy  since  that  Mistress  O'Donohue — 
that's  me  wife,  Surr,  that  was — is  dade,  has  a  good 
mimory,  and  thinks  that  it's  Moike  that  has  come  back 
to  life.  Loike  enuff ;  if  it's  indade  Moike,  he'll  be  hung. 
Maybe  it's  Moike,  and  again  maybe  it's  not  Moike  ; 
it's  not  for  the  like  o'  me  to  jist  say.  Mister  Rafferty, 
it's  he  that  minnds  the  watches  in  a  very  pertikeler  man 
ner,  and  has  been  my  neighbor  for  a  score  o'  years, 
says,  by  all  the  powers,  that  it's  not  Moike  Carling- 
ford  at  all,  and  he's  not  for  disturbin  the  darlints  above 
stairs,  if  so  be  they're  to  have  a  merry  Christmas 
among  'em." 

I  venture  to  ask  after  the  murder,  with  which  Car- 
lingford's  name  had  been  associated. 

"  It's  seven  or  eight  years  gone  now,"  said  the 
host — "  indade  it's  a  good  bit  better  than  that,  it  must 
be  ten  or  or  twelve  since  Moike  that  lived  hereabouts 
goes  down  nigh  to  Belfast,  and  they  say  fell  into  bad 
company  there  ;  and  he  was  one  of  the  younkers  that 
took  to  wearin'  o'  badges,  and  the  elictions  were  coming 
off,  and  plenty  o'  shindies  they  had.  And  an  old  gintle- 


WET  DAY  AT  AN  IRISH  INN.  51 

man — Dormoiit  was  his  name — who  lived  jist  out  o' 
Belfast,  was  a  tirrible  politician,  and  was  a  magistrate 
too ;  it's  he  was  murdered.  He  had  clapped  some  of 
the  badge-boys  into  prison,  and  they  threatened  him ; 
and  sure  enough  by  and  by  they  found  the  poor  gintle- 
man  with  his  skull  cracked,  lying  in  a  bit  of  brush,  at 
his  gate.  They  found  him  in  the  morning,  with  a 
young  pup,  that  he  had,  nosing  about  him,  and  playing 
with  a  bit  o'  ribbon,  which,  when  they  came  to  exam 
ine,  was  Moike  Carlingford's  badge,  with  his  name  in 
full  to't." 

"  And  was  this  all  the  evidence  ?"  I  asked. 

"  This  started  the  scent,  as  it  were  :  but  it  came  out 
at  the  inquest  that  Moike  had  been  seen  hanging  about 
the  place  night  after  night,  and  what's  more  he  was  in 
love  with  the  gintleman's  daughter  or  niece,  and  Dor- 
mont  had  forbid  him  the  house,  and  threatened  Moike  ; 
which  Moike  wasn't  the  man  to  bear,  without  his  speech 
back ;  and  there  were  them  that  heard  it.  But  what 
was  worst  of  all,  he  wasn't  to  be  found  for  the  trile  : 
they  traced  him  to  Cork,  where  he  went  aboard  the 
Londonderry  that  sailed  for  a  place  in  Rushy,  which 
was  lost  at  sea  and  niver  a  man  found ;  which,  if  ye 
plase,  looks  a  good  deal  as  if  it's  niver  Moike  $  though 
to  be  shure,  the  Flaherty  has  an  iligant  mimory." 

"  And  what  became  of  the  poor  girl  ?"  said  I. 

"  And  shure,  that's  the  worst  of  it :  she  wint  from 


52  SEVEN  STORIES. 

thereabouts,  and  they  say  (dropping  his  voice)  there 
was  a  little  baby  one  day,  which  she  said  that  she  was 
married,  but  would  niver  tell  who  was  her  husband, 
which  looked  uncommon  suspicious;  and  her  father 
wouldn't  take  her  in,  and  there  was  a  story  I  heard 
from  a  North  of  England  man,  where  her  father  lived, 
that  she  went  to  the  workus  and  died  there." 

This  finished  the  report  of  the  landlord,  and  I  saun 
tered  up  again  to  the  Wellington  parlor,  where  the  Fla 
herty,  in  a  clean  cap  and  ribbons,  was  just  then  laying 
the  cloth. 

The  bustle  of  some  new  arrival  called  her  away  for 
a  few  moments  ;  she  re-appeared,  however,  shortly  af 
ter — begging  my  "  pardin — but  there's  an  Inglish  gin- 
tleman  just  come  in,  and  the  coffee-room  is  not  over  tidy 
for  visitors,  tho'  she  had  spoken  to  Mister  O'Donohue 
times  enough — and  would  I  be  so  good  as  to  allow  the 
Inglish  gintleman  to  share  the  Wellington  parlor  with 
me  ?" 

"  Of  course,"  I  said,  "  I  shall  be  delighted ;  and  if 
the  gentleman  don't  think  the  hour  too  early,  perhaps 
we  can  take  a  cut  off  the  same  joint." 

The  Flaherty  was  most  gracious  in  her  thanks. 
Presently  the  new  visitor  came  up  the  stairs,  attended 
by  the  landlord. 

"It's  near  to  Armagh,  you  tell  me  ?"  I  overheard 
him  say. 


WET  DAY  AT  AN  IRISH  INN.  53 

"  A  matter  of  three  miles  the  hither  side,"  returned 
the  landlord. 

"  You're  sure  of  the  name, — Bonne  ford  ?" 

"  As  shure  as  I  am  of  me  own." 

"  Very  good,"  returned  the  Englishman,  "  have  nio 
a  '  fly*  at  the  door  at  seven  ;  we'll  put  two  horses  to  the 
road ;  two  hours  there  and  two  back :  will  you  have  a 
bed  for  me  at  midnight  if  I  come  ?  " 

"  Wheniver  you  loike,"  said  the  host ;  and  the  Eng 
lishman  came  bustling  in — a  tall  sandy-haired  man  of 
sixty  perhaps,  full  of  restiveness,  and  of  the  condition, 
I  should  judge,  of  a  moderately  well-to-do  English 
farmer.  He  wore  a  snuff  colored  coat,  and  over  it  a 
Mackintosh, — yellow  leathern  gaiters,  splashed  with 
mud,  and  a  broad-brimmed  drab  hat. 

He  thanked  me  for  my  civility  in  a  short,  sharp 
way,  and  after  a  very  brief  toilet,  disposed  himself  for 
the  dinner  which  was  now  smoking  on  the  table. 

"  And  Mary,"  said  he  turning  to  the  gaunt  land 
lady,  "  please  bring  me  a  pint  oj  sherry,  and  let  Boots 
clean  up  my  galoshes,  and  let  him  have  the  'fly*  at  the 
door  at  seven  to  a  minute  ;  and  Mary — 

"  Mistress  Flaherty,  surr  ! " — with  a  curtsy,  said 
the  woman. 

"  Oh,  eh,  I  beg  pardon  Mistress  Flaherty  ;  and  will 
Mistress  Flaherty  see  that  the  sheets  have  a  good  airing 
for  me,  against  midnight  or  thereabout, — there's  a  good 
woman  ?  " 


54  SEVEN-  STORIES. 

"  The  house  niver  gives  damp  sheets,  surr." 

"  Its  a  igh  feather  these  Irish  maids  wear  in  their 
caps,"  said  he  as  the  landlady  disappeared. 

We  fell  presently  to  discussion  of  the  mutton,  and  to 
the  relative  merits  of  the  Southdowns  and  of  the  little 
moor-fed  sheep  one  meets  with  in  Ireland,  in  which  I 
found  he  was  as  thoroughly  English  in  his  tastes,  as  in 
his  appearance.  We  talked  of  the  bog,  of  the  potatoe 
disease,  of  the  poor-rates ;  an  hour  passed  thus,  and 
finally  we  came  back  to  the  weather  and  the  Christmas 
season  ; — "  not  just  the  season,"  I  observed,  u  that  an 
Englishman  usually  chooses  to  while  away  in  a  damp 
inn." 

"  Quite  right,"  said  he,  as  he  went  on  compounding 
a  punch  from  a  few  fragrant  materials  brought  up  from 
the  tap  ;  "  quite  right  as  you  say,  and  a  damp  ride  on 
such  a  night  as  this,  is  worse  than  the  inn  and  the 
punch." 

This  latter  cheered  him,  and  invited  a  more  per 
sonal  chat  than  he  had  yet  indulged  in. 

"  It  is  to  Armagh  you  are  going  to  night  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Thereabout,"  said  he  ;  "  and  I  may  tell  you,  now 
that  we've  tasted  the  punch  together — your  good  *elth, 
sir — that  if  I  find  the  man  I'm  in  search  of,  and  if  he  's 
the  man  I  take  him  for,  this  will  be  the  merriest  Christ 
mas  eve  I've  passed  in  twenty  years'  time." 

"  Indeed,"  said  I,  rather  startled  by  a  certain  pathos 


WET  DAY  AT  AN  IRISH  INN.  55 

in  his  tone  which  I  had  not  before  recognised ;  "  some 
old  friend,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it — not  one  bit ;  never  saw  him  in 
my  life.  The  oddest  thing  in  the  world." 

This  was  said  rather  to  himself  than  to  me,  and  he 
relapsed  into  a  musing  mood,  which  I  did  not  feel  at 
liberty  for  a  time  to  interrupt. 

"  It 's  not  the  first  mystery  that's  perplexed  me  to 
day,"  said  I,  half  laughingly,  as  the  stranger  lifted  his 
head  again. 

"  Ah,  indeed — and  pray,  if  I  may  be  so  bold,  what 's 
the  other  ?" 

"  Come  to  the  window  and  perhaps  I  can  show  you" 
said  I.  The  December  evenings  in  the  North  of 
Ireland  are  terribly  long.  Our  own  candles  had  been 
lighted  since  three  of  the  afternoon ;  and  as  I  pulled 
aside  the  curtain,  the  street  lamps  and  shop  fronts  were 
all  cheerfully  ablaze.  Over  the  watch-makers,  in  the 
window  where  my  chief  observation  of  the  morning  had 
centered  there  was  no  lamp  burning,  but  there  was  a 
ruddy  glow  in  the  room,  such  as  a  well  lighted  grate-full 
of  coals  might  throw  out. 

"  Do  you  see?"  said  I,  "over  the  way  ?  There's  a 
dog  lying  before  the  fire." 

"  Aye,  aye, — I  see." 

"And  there's  a  woman  in  the  shadow  by  the 
hearth." 


56  SEVEN  STORIES. 

"  Quite  right,  I  can  make  out  her  figure." 

And  there's  a  pair  of  children ;  you  see  how  the 
fire-light  reddens  up  their  faces  ?" 

"  Aye,  aye,  chubby  rogues — God  bless  me,  I  had 
such  once.  And  that's  the  father  I  suppose,  from  the 
way  they  lean  upon  him  and  tug  at  his  waistcoat  ?  " 

"  There's  the  mystery,"  says  I. 

"  Oho  ! " 

"  Does  he  look  like  a  murderer  ?"  said  I. 

"  Bless  my  soul !  murderer  !    What  do  you  mean?" 

I  dropped  the  curtains,  and  when  we  had  taken  our 
places  again  before  the  fire,  I  detailed  to  him  the  inci 
dents  of  the  morning.  He  seemed  to  enjoy  immensely 
the  oddity  of  the  whole  thing,  and  chiefly  the  assura.ice 
of  the  gaunt  old  Flaherty,  who  brought  up  a  murderer 
from  the  bottom  of  the  North  Sea  to  drive  straight  into 
town  on  such  a  dreary  December  day. 

"But  whose  was  this  murder?"  says  my  com 
panion,  with  a  sudden,  thoughtful  check  to  his  hilarity. 

"  Dormont,  was  the  name  I  think." 

The  man  gave  a  sudden  start.  "  Bless  me  !  Ben 
Dormont  !  I  began  to  suspect  as  much.  Why  do  you 
know  I  knew  him  like  a  brother ;  in  fact  he  was  my 
wife 's  brother ;  and  lived  away  here  in  the  North  of 
Ii eland;  aye,  Ben  Dormont;  he  was  murdered  true 
enough  ;  but  its  not  our  friend  over  yonder  that  did  it. 
There  was  a  story  I  know  that  some  young  Belfast^man 


ry 

WET  DAY  AT  AN  IRIfH  INN.  51 


killed  him,  and  they  tracked  him  to  Cork  ;  but  he,  pool 
fellow,  went  down  in — the  Londonderry — sure  enough 
— the  very  ship ;  they're  right  there.  But  the  man 
who  killed  Dormont  was  Pat  Eagan,  who  died  in  Ingy 
three  years  gone.  My  son  you  must  know,  is  sergeant 
in  Her  Majesty's  forty-third,  and  Pat  was  one  of  his 
men — enlisted  in  Ingy.  He  fell  sick  of  the  fever  there, 
and  at  the  last  wanted  a  priest,  and  a  magistrate,  and 
made  a  clean  breast  of  it.  My  boy  sent  home  copies 
of  all  the  papers  ;  if  the  Flaherty  wants  them  to  clear 
up  the  name  of  her  drowned  friend,  she  shall  have 
them." 

I  must  confess  to  a  strong  feeling  of  relief  at  this 
revelation ;  for  in  spite  of  myself  I  was  beginning  to 
feel  a  warm  interest  in  the  people  over  the  way,  and 
had  been  oppressed  with  an  uncomfortable  sense  of  the 
Flaherty's  earnestness,  and  of  her  "  iligant  mimory." 

But  there  was  another  little  episode  connected  with 
the  story  of  the  murder,  as  the  landlord  had  detailed  it, 
which  perhaps  my  English  companion  might  throw 
light  upon ;  indeed,  I  had  my  suspicions,  that  he  had 
purposely  waived  all  allusion  to  it.  But  my  curiosity 
overbore,  for  the  time,  all  sense  of  delicacy. 

"  If  I  remember  rightly,"  said  I,  carelessly,  "  there 
was  a  young  woman  associated  in  some  way  with  the 
story  of  this  Dormont  murder  ?  " 

The  old  gentleman's  face  quivered ;  for  a  moment 
3* 


58  SEVEN  STORIES. 

he  seemed  to  hesitate  how  he  should  meet  the  question; 
then  he  broke  out  in  a  tone  of  passionate  bitterness : 

"Aye  sir,  you've  heard  it;  you've  heard  she  was 
a  wanton,  and  I  fear  it  was  God's  truth  ;  you've  heard 
her  father  shut  his  door  upon  her,  and  I  wish  my  hand 
had  withered  before  I  did  it.  You've  heard  she  died 
in  the  workus — Grod  forgive  me  ; — my  daughter,  sir ; 
my  poor,  wretched  Jane  ! " 

Patrick  tapped  at  the  door  and  said  the  'fly'  was 
ready. 

The  old  gentleman  sat  by  the  fire  leaning  for 
ward,  and  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands.  Pres 
ently  he  rose,  with  his  composure  partly  restored  again. 
"  You  know  now,"  said  he,  approaching  me,  "  why 
I've  had  many  a  weary  Christmas ;  but  I've  a  faint 
hope  left ;  and  I'm  in  chase  of  it  to-night.  I  told  you 
my  boy  heard  of  the  confession  of  Pat  Eagan,  and 
went  to  see  him  before  he  died.  He  told  him  who  he 
was,  and  asked  if  he  could  tell  him  the  truth  about 
Jane.  c  Is  she  alive  or  dead?'  said  Pat.  'Dead,' 
said  my  boy.  c  I  don't  know  all  the  truth/  said  Pat, 
4  but  there's  a  man  in  Ingy  can  right  her  name  if  ho 
will ;  and  his  name  is  James  Bonneford.'  And  my  boy 
wrote  me  that  lie  hunted  that  man  through  the  country, 
as  he  would  have  hunted  a  deer  :  now  he  heard  of  him, 
now  he  didnt  hear  of  him.  There  were  two  years  or 
more  of  this,  when  he  wrote  me  (and  the  letter  only 


WET  DA  Y  A  T  AN   IRISH  INN.  59 

came  a  week  ago)  that  the  man  had  gone  to  Ireland, 
on  his  way  to  Ameriky ;  and  that  he  might  be  heard 
of  about  Armagh.  That's  my  errand  to  night." 

"  God  help  you,"  said  I. 

And  he  drew  on  his  galoshes,  buttoned  up  his  mack 
intosh,  bade  me  good  evening,  and  presently  I  heard 
the  fly  rattling  away  up  the  street. 

I  stirred  the  fire,  drew  my  chair  before  it,  and  was 
meditating  another  attack  upon  the  county  Gazetteer, 
when  Patrick  appeared  with  a  slip  of  paper  which  he 
handed  me,  and  says — "  It's  a  man  below  steers,  as 
would  loike  a  worrd  with  the  gintleman  in  the  Welling 
ton  parlor." 

I  turned  the  paper  to  the  light — "James  Bonne- 
ford,"  in  a  full,  bold  hand  was  written  on  it.  It  was 
my  English  companion  of  the  dinner,  doubtless,  the  man 
was  in  search  of;  but  how  on  earth  could  he  have  got 
wind  of  his  arrival  ?  The  mysteries  of  the  day  were 
thickening  on  me. 

As  I  walked  leisurely  down  the  stairs,  I  overheard 
violent  and  excited  talk  from  the  tap-room ;  and  from 
the  chance  words  that  caught  my  ear,  I  saw  that 
Mistress  Flaherty's  suspicions  of  the  morning  were 
meeting  active  discussion.  Mr.  Bonneford  could  wait 
surely,  until  I  learned  what  course  the  altercation  was 
taking.  A  half  dozen  of  the  neighbors  had  strolled  in, 
and  among  them,  with  a  terribly  excited  face,  I  savf 
the  object  of  suspicion  himself. 


60  SEVEN  STORIES. 

"  And  who  is  it  says  Mike  CarlingforcTs  come 
home  ?  "  says  he,  challenging  the  company  with  a  de 
fiant  air. 

"  Its  Meestress  Flaherty,"  says  one. 

"  Flaherty  be  d —  ! "  said  the  man.  "  Didn't  Mike 
Carlingford  go  down  with  the  Londonderry,  eight  years 
ago?" 

"Moike,  Moike,"  said  the  Flaherty  pressing  for 
ward,  "  don't  forswear  yourself,  if  ye  did  rap  the  old 
man  on  the  head.  It's  Moike  ye  are ;  and  if  I  was 
hanged  for  it,  I'd  say  it,  and  may  the  Lord  have  mercy 
on  ye  ! " 

There  was  an  earnestness,  and  directness  in  the  old 
woman's  tones  that  carried  conviction  to  the  neighbors. 

The  man  saw  it  only  too  clearly,  and  his  jaw  droop 
ed ;  the  color  left  his  face  ;  I  thought  he  would  have 
fallen  ;  but  he  rallied,  and  said  in  a  subdued  tone — all 
his  defiance  gone — "  it's  not  you'll  be  hanged,  Mistress 
Flaherty :  it's  me  they'd  be  afther  hanging.  They 
chased  me  out  of  Ireland,  and  only  the  Lord  saved  me 
when  the  Londonderry  went  down,  and  I  thought  shure 
He  would  have  made  it  right  before  long ;  but  he  hasn't. 
For  I'm  as  innocent  of  that  murder  as  the  babe  that's 
unborn." 

"  I  belave  ye,  Moike,"  said  the  Flaherty  ;  "  now  I 
look  at  yer  and  hear  ye  say  it — by  my  sowl  and  I  b» 
lave  ye,  Moike." 


WET  DAY  AT  AN  IRISH  INN.  61 

"  You  are  quite  right,  I  think,  my  good  woman," 
said  I.  And  thereupon  I  detailed  to  them  the  particu 
lars  which  I  had  learned  from  the  Englishman  above 
stairs  ;  and  I  think  I  never  made  a  little  speech  which 
was  more  approved. 

"Thank  God— thank  God!"  said  Mike,  while  a 
half  dozen,  and  the  Flaherty  foremost,  crowded  about 
him  to  give  his  hand  a  shake. 

"  Now,  for  the  little  woman  !"  said  Mike,  springing 
away. 

"  He  was  married  then,"  said  a  voice. 

"  Aye,"  said  Mike  starting  back,  "  who  dares  to  say 
she  wasn't  ?  Married  a  fortnight  before  the  cursed 
murder  ;  'twas  that  took  me  so  often  to  the  house  ;  and 
the  very  night,  Janey  pulls  away  my  badge,  and  says 
Mike  don't  be  afther  wearing  these  ribbons — they'll  get 
you  in  trouble ;  and  she  threw  it  to  Touser  that  was 
lying  under  the  table,  and  the  dog  followed  me  out  that 
night,  and  there,  near  to  the  gate,  he  found  the  old  man, 
and  hung  by  him.  But  Touser  has  made  the  bad  job 
good  to  me  ;  there's  niver  a  man  or  woman  in  Ireland 
or  England,  not  excepting  her  own  father,  that's  been 
so  kind  to  the  children,  ever  since  they  were  born,  as 
that  dog." 

"  Children  ! "  says  Flaherty,  "  and  by  my  sowl,  I 
consated  it  long  ago  ; — them  girrls  is  twins  ! " 

"  A  brace  of  them,"  says  Mike,  "  and  I  never  saw 


62  SEVEN  STORIES. 

their  blessed  faces  till  this  day  noon ;  and  now  they'll 
have  an  honest  name  to  carry :  it's  this  that's  borne  so 
hard  upon  the  little  woman :  for  at  the  very  last  I  said 
to  her, — "  Janey,  whatever  befals,  mind  ye  wait  till  God 
clears  it  up,  before  you  do  the  naming :  it's  better  a 
child  should  have  none,  than  a  murderer's."  And  with 
that,  and  shouting  merry  Christmas  to  all  of  them, 
Mike  dashed  out,  and  across  the  street  again. 

Of  course  I  had  forgotten  all  about  Mr.  Bonneford ; 
I  suspected  who  he  must  be  ;  Patrick  made  the  matter 
clear — u  And  shure  its  Moike,  hisself ;  isn't  it  written — 
Moike  ?  "  (looking  at  the  slip  of  paper  in  my  hand.) 
"  He  said  he'd  be  jist  afther  thanking  the  gintleman  that 
sent  over  the  cakes  the  mornin'." 

"  All  right,  Patrick ;  and  now  Patrick  put  some 
fresh  coals  on  the  fire  in  the  "  Wellington,"  and  ask  the 
Flaherty  to  bring  me  two  or  three  sheets  of  paper,  ink 
stand  and  pens." 

I  had  been  writing  an  hour  or  two  perhaps,  when  I 
heard  the  rattle  of  a  fly  below,  and  remembered  that 
my  dinner  friend  must  be  nearly  due,  on  his  return.  In 
he  came  presently,  thoroughly  fagged,  heart-sick,  and 
moody. 

"  I  am  afraid  you've  been  unsuccessful,"  I  said. 

"  My  boy  has  been  deceived,"  said  he.  "  The  only 
Bonnefords  about  Armagh,  are  a  quiet  family,  that  I 
went  blundering  upon  with  a  story  about  Ingy,  and 


WET  DAY  AT  AX   IRISH  INN.  63 

James  Bouneford,  till  I  believe  they  thought  me  a  mad- 
man  ;  I'm  not  far  from  it,  God  knows  ! " 

"  Cheer  up  my  good  friend"  said  I,  "  a  visitor  has 
been  in  since  you  left,  about  whom  you'll  be  glad  to 
hear ; "  and  I  tossed  the  strip  of  paper  toward  him. 
The  old  gentleman  took  out  his  spectacles,  and  spelled 
it  letter  by  letter, — "  James  Bonneford ! — what  does  all 
this  mean  ?"  says  he  in  a  maze. 

"  It  means  this,"  said  I,  "  that  James  Bonneford  13 
only  the  name  that  Mike  Carlingford  wore  in  India  to 
escape  suspicion  and  pursuit ;  and  this  Mike  Carlingford 
is  the  legal  husband  of  your  daughter  Jane  (the  old 
man's  face  lighted  here  with  the  gladdest  smile  I  ever 
saw)  and  they  are  both  now  over  the  way,  with  their 
children  (here  the  old  man's  face  grew  fairly  radiant) 
and  I  daresay,  if  they  knew  you  were  here,  they  would 
invite  you  to  pass  Christmas  eve  with  them." 

There  was  dead  silence  for  a  moment. 

— "No  they  wouldnt — no  they  wouldn't,"  fairly 
blubbered  the  old  man ;  then  turning  upon  me,  with 
something  of  his  former  manner,  "  You're  not  playing 
me  unfair  ?  It's  all  true  you  are  telling  me  ?  " 

"  As  true  as  that  you  are  sitting  before  me." 

The  old  gentleman  leaped  from  his  chair,  and  made 
a  dash  into  the  hall — turned  again,  came  back  with  his 
broad-brim  drawn  far  over  his  brow — his  lips  twitching 
nervously,  and  muttering  "  I've  treated  her  like  a  brute 
—like  a  brute — indeed  I  have." 


64  SEVEN  STORIES. 

<;  I  know  you  have,  iny  good  friend,"  said  I,  "  and 
its  quite  time  you  began  to  treat  her  like  a  woman  and 
a  daughter." 

"  That's  what  I  will,"  said  he,  taking  courage  and 
moving  away. 

"  One  moment ;" 

I  wrote  upon  a  slip  of  paper ; — CHRISTMAS  EVE  is 

A    GOOD   TIME    TO    FORGIVE    INJURIES. 1  folded   it,  and 

begged  him  to  take  it  across  the  street,  with  the  compli 
ments  of  the  season  from  the  Wellington  parlor  :  "  There 
was  a  little  gift  for  the  girls  in  the  morning,"  said  I, 
"  and  this  is  for  the  Papa." 

I  hope  it  may  have  had  its  effect :  it  is  quite  certain 
that  something  did ;  for  I  saw  no  more  of  my  dinner 
companion  that  night ;  and  when  I  looked  out  of  my 
chamber  window  at  eight  o'clock  next  morning,  who 
should  I  see  upon  the  sunny  side  of  the  street  (it  had 
cleared  over-night),  but  the  same  old  gentleman,  beam 
ing  with  smiles,  leading  a  little  grandchild  by  each 
hand,  and  the  dog  "Touser"  following  after,  with  a 
very  mystified  air. 

And  when  I  took  the  coach  for  Drogheda,  as  I  did 
at  nine,  a  rosy  cheeked  little  girl  came  running  over 
with  a  merry  Christmas  for  me  (which  I  met  with  a 
kiss) ,  and  a  sprig  of  Holly  tied  with  white  ribbon,  which 
I  placed  in  my  button  hole  and  kept  there  through  all 
that  lonely  ride.  At  night,  I  transferred  it  to  my  note 


WET  DAY  AT  AN  IRISH  INN.  65 

book,  and  it  is  from  its  crumbling  leaves,  lying  there 
still,  that  I  have  fanned  this  little  story  of  an  Irish- 
Christmas  into  shape. 


SECOND  STORY: 


ACCOUNT    OF    A    CONSULATE, 


SECOND  STORY: 


Account  of  a    Consulate. 

JULIUS  CAESAR  was  a  Consul,  and  the  first  Bo 
naparte  ;  and  so  was  I. 

I  do  not  think  that  I  am  possessed  of  any  very  ex 
traordinary  ambition.  I  like  comfort,  I  like  mush 
rooms  ;  (truffles  I  do  not  like) .  I  think  Lafitte  is  a 
good  wine,  and  wholesome.  Gin  is  not  to  my  taste, 
and  I  never  attended  caucuses.  Therefore,  I  had  nev 
er  entertained  great  expectations  of  political  preferment, 
and  lived  for  a  considerable  period  of  years  without  any 
topes  in  that  way,  and  with  a  very  honest  indifference. 

And  yet,  when  my  name  actually  appeared  in  the 
newspapers,  as  named  by  appointment  of  the  President, 

Consul  to Blank,  I  felt,  I  will  confess  (if  I  may  use 

such  an  expression),  an  unusual  expansion.  I  felt  con 
fident  that  I  had  become  on  a  sudden  the  subject  of  a 
good  deal  of  not  unnatural  envy.  I  excused  people  for 
it,  and  never  thought  of  blaming  or  of  resenting  it. 


70  SEVEN-  STORIES. 

My  companions  in  the  e very-day  walks  of  life,  I  treat 
ed,  I  am  satisfied,  with  the  same  consideration  as 
before. 

In  short,  I  concealed  my  elation  as  much  as  pos 
sible,  and  only  indulged  the  playful  elasticity  of  my 
spirits  in  a  frequent  private  perusal  of  that  column 
of  the  New  York  Times  which  made  the  announcement 
of  my  appointment,  and  where  my  name  appeared 
in  print,  associated  with  those  of  the  distinguished  Mr. 
Soule,  Mr.  Greaves  (I  believe),  Mr.  Daniels,  Mr. 
Brown,  Mr.  McCrea,  and  a  great  many  others. 

I  cannot  accurately  describe  my  feelings  when  the 
postmaster  of  our  town  (a  smart  gentleman  of  great 
tact,  but  now  turned  out),  handed  me  a  huge  packet 
from  the  Department  of  State,  franked  by  Mr.  Marcy 
(evidently  his  own  hand  had  traced  the  lines),  sealed 
with  the  large  seal  of  the  Department,  and  addressed  to 

me,  Mr.  Blank,  Consul  of  the  United  States  for 

Blank.  I  took  the  postmaster  by  the  hand  and  en 
deavored  to  appear  cool.  I  think  I  made  some  casual 
remark  about  the  weather.  Good  heavens,  what  a 
hypocrite  ! 

I  broke  open  the  packet  with  emotion.  It  contained 
a  notice  (I  think  it  was  in  the  Secretary's  hand)  of  my 

appointment  to  Blank.  It  contained  a  printed 

list  of  foreign  ministers  and  consuls,  in  which  my  name 
was  entered  in  writing.  In  the  next  issue,  I  was  sure  it 


ACCOUNT  OF  A   CONSULATE.  7\ 

frould  appear  in  print.  It  contained  a  published  pam 
phlet  (quite  thin)  of  instructions.  It  contained  a  circular, 
on  paper  of  a  blue  tinge,  recommending  modest  dress. 
I  liked  the  friendly  way  in  which  the  recommendation 
was  conveyed ;  not  absolutely  compelling,  but  advising 
— a  black  coat,  and  black  pantaloons.  In  the  warmth 
of  my  grateful  feelings  at  that  time,  I  think  I  should 
have  vowed  compliance  if  the  Secretary  had  advised 
saffron  shorts,  and  a  sky-blue  tail-coat. 

There  was,  beside,  in  the  packet  a  blank  of  a  bond, 
to  be  filled  up  in  the  sum  of  two  thousand  dollars,  as  a 
kind  of  guarantee  for  the  safe  return  of  such  con 
sular  property  as  I  might  find  at Blank.  I  was 

gratified  at  being  able  to  render  such  a  substantial 
evidence  of  my  willingness  to  incur  risks  for  the 
sake  of  my  country,  and  of  the  Administration.  It  was 
necessary,  however,  that  two  good  bondsmen  should 
sign  the  instrument  with  me.  I  knew  I  should  have  no 
difficulty  in  finding  them.  I  asked  two  of  my  friends  to 
come  forward  in  the  matter.  They  came  forward 
promptly ;  and  without  an  arriere-pensee  (to  make  use 
of  an  apt  foreign  expression)  they  put  their  names  to 
the  bond.  I  should  be  tempted  to  give  their  names 
here,  did  I  not  know  their  modesty  would  be  offended 
by  public  notice. 

I  sent  the  instrument  to  Washington  in  a  large  en 
velope,  with  a  mention  in  one  corner,  in  my  own  hand- 


72  SEVEN  STORIES. 

writing, — "  Official  Business."  I  did  not  drop  it  into 
the  outside  box  of  the  office,  but  presented  it  with  my 
own  hands  through  the  trap  to  the  clerk.  The  clerk 
read  the  address,  and  turned  toward  me  with  a  look 
of  consideration  that  I  never  saw  upon  his  face  before. 
And  yet  (so  deceitful  is  human  pride),  I  blew  my  nose 
as  if  nothing  of  importance  had  happened !  I  knew 
that  the  clerk  would  mention  the  circumstance  of  the 
"Official"  letter  to  the  second  clerk,  and  that  both 
would  look  at  me  with  wonder  when  they  next  met  me 
in  the  street,  or  gazed  on  me  in  my  pew  at  the  church. 
In  short,  I  cannot  describe  my  feelings. 

A  few  days  after,  I  received  one  or  two  letters  in 
handwriting  unknown  to  me  ;  they  proved  to  be  appli 
cations  for  clerkships  in  my  consular  bureau.  I  replied 
to  them  in  a  civil,  but  perhaps  rather  stately  manner, 
informing  the  parties  that  I  was  not  yet  aware  of  the 
actual  income  of  the  office,  but  if  appearances  were 
favorable,  I  promised  to  communicate  further. 

A  friend  suggested  to  me  that  perhaps,  before  as 
suming  so  important  a  trust,  it  would  be  well  to  make 
a  short  trip  to  the  seat  of  government,  and  confer  per 
sonally  with  the  members  of  the  Cabinet.  The  sug 
gestion  seemed  to  me  judicious.  1  should  in  this  way 
be  put  in  possession  of  the  special  views  of  the  Admin 
istration,  and  be  better  able  to  conduct  the  business  of 
my  office,  in  agreement  with  the  Government  views  of 


ACCOUNT  OF  A    CONSULATE.  73 

international  policy,  and  the  interests  of  the  world  ge  n- 
e  rally.  It  is  true,  the  cost  of  the  journey  would  be 
something,  but  it  was  not  a  matter  to  be  thought  of  in 
an  affair  of  so  grave  importance.  I  therefore  went  to 
Washington. 

In  a  city  where  so  many  consuls  are  (I  might  say) 
annually  appointed,  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  my 
arrival  would  create  any  unusual  stir.  Indeed  it  did 
not.  If  I  might  be  allowed  the  expression  of  opinion 
on  such  a  point,  I  think  that  the  inn-keeper  gave  me 
a  room  very  near  the  roof — for  a  consul.  I  called  al 
most  immediately  on  my  arrival  at  the  office  of  the 
Secretary  of  State.  I  was  told  that  the  Secretary  of 
State  was  engaged,  but  was  recommended  by  his  door 
keeper  to  enter  my  name  at  the  bottom  of  a  long  list  in 
his  possession,  in  order  that  I  might  secure  my  turn  for 
admittance.  I  represented  my  official  character  to  the 
door-keeper.  I  could  not  discover  that  his  countenance 
altered  in  the  least ;  he,  however,  kindly  offered  to  pre 
sent  me  at  the  door  of  the  consular  bureau. 

The  gentlemen  of  that  department  received  me  gra 
ciously,  and  congratulated  me,  I  thought,  in  a  somewhat 
gleeful  manner,  considering  their  responsible  positions, 
upon  my  appointment.  At  my  request  they  showed  me 
gome  communications  which  were  on  file  from  the  con 
sular  office  I  was  destined  to  fill.  There  were  a  few 
letters  on  foolscap,  and  a  lew  on  note  paper  They  did 
4 


74  SEVEN  STORIES. 

not  seem  to  me  to  come  up  altogether  to  the  "  Instruct 
tions."  I  made  a  remark  to  that  effect,  which  appeared 
to  be  unobserved. 

Among  other  papers  was  a  list  of  the  effects  belong 
ing  to  the  consular  office  at Blank.  It  read,  if  I 

remember  rightly : 

"  One  Small  Flag. 

"  One  Brass  Stamp. 

"  One  Pewter  do. 

"  Two  Books  of  Record. 

"  Nine  Blank  Passports. 

"  One  broken-legged  Table. 

"Two  Office  Stools  (old), 

"  One  l  Arms'  (good  condition)." 

I  must  say  I  was  surprised  at  this  list.  It  seemed 
to  me  there  was  some  discrepancy  between  the  two 
thousand  dollar  bond  I  had  signed,  and  the  value  of  the 
effects  of  which  I  was  to  come  into  possession.  It 
seemed  to  me,  however,  that  furniture  and  things  of 
that  sort  might  be  dear  in  so  distant  a  country.  I  had 
no  doubt  they  were.  I  hinted  as  much  to  the  clerk  in 
attendance. 

He  said  he  thought  they  might  be. 

"  Nous  verrons"  said  I,  at  which  he  smiled  and  said, 
"  Oh,  you  know  the  language,  then  ?" 

I  said  I  should  know  it ;  only  the  place  was  Italian, 
and  the  remark  I  had  just  made  was  hi  the  French  lan 
guage. 


ACCOUNT  OF  A    CONSULATE.  75 

"  Oh  dear,  well,"  said  he,  "  I  don't  think  it  makes 
any  difference." 

I  told  him  "  I  hoped  it  wouldn't." 

"  Its  rare  they  know  the  language,"  said  he,  picking 
a  bit  of  lint  off  from  his  coat-sleeve. 

I  felt  encouraged  at  this. 

"  Only  take  a  small  dictionary  along,"  continued 
he. 

I  asked  if  there  was  one  belonging  to  the  office  ? 

He  thought  not. 

I  asked  him,  then,  how  much  he  thought  the  place 
was  worth  ? 

At  this  he  politely  showed  me  an  old  account  of 
"  returns."  It  seemed  to  be  a  half-yearly  account, 
though  some  of  the  half-years  were  skipped  apparently, 
and  the  others,  I  really  thought,  might  as  well  have 
been  skipped.  Indeed  I  was  not  a  little  taken  aback 
at  the  smallness  of  the  sums  indicated.  I  daresay  I 
showed  as  much  in  my  face,  for  the  clerk  told  me,  in  a 
confidential  way,  that  he  doubted  if  the  returns  were 
full.  He  thought  they  might  be  safely  doubled.  I 
thought,  for  my  own  part,  that  there  would  not  be  much 
safety  in  doubling  them  even. 

The  clerk  further  hinted,  that  within  a  short  time 
such  positions  would  be  of  more  value  ;  there  was  to  be 
a  revisal  of  the  consular  system. 

I  told  him  I  had  heard  so ;  as,  indeed,  I  had,  any 


76  8EVEX  STORIES. 

time. and  many  times  within  the  last  ten  or  fifteen  years. 
Beside  which — there  was  my  country  ! 

"  Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead  " 

(to  quote  a  popular  piece  of  poetry),  who  would  not 
serve  his  country,  even  if  the  fees  are  small  ? 

And  again,  the  returns  were  doubtless  misrepre 
sented  :  indeed,  I  had  heard  of  a  private  boast  from  a 
late  incumbent  of  the  post,  to  the  effect  that  u  he  had 
lived  in  clover."  I  had  no  doubt,  in  my  own  mind, 
that  the  Government  had,  in  some  way,  paid  for  the 
clover. 

I  was  disappointed,  finally,  in  respect  to  an  inter 
view  with  the  Secretary  of  State.  I  had  the  honor, 
however,  while  at  Washington,  of  a  presentation  to  the 
Under-Secretary.  I  do  not  think  that  he  was  aware  of 
my  appointment,  or,  indeed,  that  he  had  ever  heard  of 
me  before  ;  though  he  made  a  kind  effort  to  recall  me 
to  remembrance ;  and,  in  any  event  was  pleased  (he 
said)  to  make  my  acquaintance.  lie  expressed  him 
self  to  the  effect  that  men  of  character  were  needed  for 
Government  offices. 

I  told  him  I  thought  they  were. 

The  instructions  ordered  that  I  should  give  informa 
tion  to  the  Department  of  the  time  of  my  sailing  for  my 
foreign  destination,  with  the  name  of  the  port  at  which 
I  was  to  embark,  and  of  the  ship.  This  I  did — as  the 


ACCOUNT  OF  A    CONSULATE.  77 

instructions  enjoined — upon  foolscap.  I  must  not  omit 
to  mention,  that  I  was  provided  with  a  special  passport 
—not,  indeed,  bearing  the  usual  insignia  of  the  eagle 
and  darts,  but  an  autograph  passport,  designating  in 
good  English  my  rank  and  destination,  and  inviting 
foreign  Governments  generally  to  show  me  the  atten 
tion  due  to  my  official  capacity. 

I  put  this  in  my  portmanteau,  together  with  a  pock 
et  edition  of  VATTEL  On  the  Law  of  Nations,  for  private 
reference,  and  also  a  small  dictionary.  With  these,  I 
bade  my  friends  adieu,  shaking  them  cheerfully  by  the 
hand,  and  from  the  poop  of  the  ship  waved  a  farewell 
to  my  country.  The  professed  travel-writers — such  as 
Bayard  Taylor — describe  these  things  a  great  deal  bet 
ter.  I  can  only  say  that,  with  a  very  bitter  feeling  in 
my  chest,  I  went  below,  where  I  remained  the  most  of 
the  time  until  we  reached  the  other  side. 

When  I  arrived  in  France — where  I  was  not  per 
sonally  known — I  trusted  very  much  to  the  extraordi 
nary  passport  which  I  carried,  and  which  I  had  no  doubt 
would  make  considerable  impression  upon  the  officials. 
Indeed,  a  timid  man  who  had  made  the  voyage  with 
me,  and  who  was  in  some  way  made  aware  of  my  con 
sular  capacity  (though  I  never  hinted  it  myself,)  ven 
tured  to  hope  that  I  would  give  him  my  assistance  in 
case  his  papers  were  not  all  right.  I  promised  I  would 
do  so.  I  may  say  that  I  felt  proud  of  the  application. 


78  SEVEN  STORIES. 

I  walked  with  great  confidence  into  the  little  receiv 
ing-room  of  the  police,  guided  by  two  soldiers  who  wore 
caps  very  much  like  a  reversed  tin-kettle,  and  presented 
my  special  passport.  The  chief  of  the  office  looked  at 
it  in  a  very  hard  manner,  and  then  passed  it  to  his 
neighbor.  I  was  certainly  prepared  for  a  look  of  con 
sideration  on  their  part.  On  the  contrary,  I  thought 
they  examined  me  with  a  good  deal  of  impertinent 
scrutiny. 

At  length  one  of  them  said,  with  an  air  of  confi 
dence,  "  Vous  ctes  Anglais?" — You  are  English? 

I  could  not  help  saying — using  the  French  form  of 
expression — "  Mon  Dieu  I — no  ! " 

And  I  proceeded  to  tell  him  what  I  really  was,  and 
that  the  passport  was  an  American  passport,  and  of  an 
official  character.  The  officers  looked  at  it  again,  and 
seemed  to  consult  for  a  while  together ;  at  length  one 
said,  u  C'est  egal — it's  all  the  same" — asked  me  my 
name,  and,  with  some  hesitation,  placed  his  seal  upon 
the  instrument.  In  this  way  I  was  let  into  France. 
The  timid  man  who  had  voyaged  with  me,  had,  mean 
time,  sidled  away.  I  suspect  he  must  have  gone  up  to 
Paris  by  an  early  train,  for  I  did  not  meet  with  him 
again.  I  hope  he  had  no  trouble. 

There  was  not  very  much  made  of  my  digaity  in 
any  part  of  France ;  but  not  being  accredited  to  that 
country,  I  felt  no  resentment,  and  enjoyed  Paris  perhaps 


ACCOUNT  OF  A    CONSULATE.  79 

as  much  as  any  merely  private  citizen  could  do.  To 
prevent,  however,  any  mistake  in  future  about  my  pass 
port,  I  printed  in  large  characters  and  in  the  French 
language,  upon  the  envelope,  "  Passport  of  Blank,  Con 
sul  of  the  United  States  of  America,  for Blank." 

This  was  a  good  hit,  and  was,  I  found,  readily  un 
derstood.  The  landlord,  with  whom  I  staid  while  in 
Paris  (an  obliging  man)  made  up  his  bill  against  the 
title  in  full.  It  was  pleasant  to  have  recognition. 

I  continued  my  journey  in  excellent  spirits.  I  think 
it  was  on  the  road  through  Switzerland  that  I  fell  in 
with  a  chatty  personage  in  the  coupe  of  the  diligence  ; 
and  having  at  one  time  to  hand  my  passport  to  a  soldier 
at  a  frontier  station,  the  paper  came  under  the  eye  of 
my  companion  of  the  coupe.  He  was  charmed  to  have 
the  honor  of  my  acquaintance.  He  expressed  an  exces 
sive  admiration  for  my  country  and  my  fellow-members 
of  the  Government. 

I  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  been  in  the  United  States  ? 
He  said  he  had  not ;  but  he  had  a  friend,  he  told  me, 
who  once  touched  at  Guadaloupe,  and  found  the  climate 
delightful. 

I  told  him,  in  all  kindness,  that  the  United  States 
did  not  reach  as  far  as  that. 

"Comment  ?  "  said  he. 

I  repeated,  that  at  the  time  I  left,  the  West  Indies 
were  not  included  in  the  United  States. 


SO  SEVEN  STORIES. 

"  OA,  qa  arrivera!"  said  he;  and  he  made  a  pu 
gressive  gesture  with  his  two  hands,  as  if  he  woi  Id  em 
brace  the  flank  of  the  diligence  horses. 

He  asked  me  if  the  country  was  generally  flat  ? 

I  told  him  it  was  a  good  deal  so. 

"  But,  7»i07i  Dieu  1 "  said  he,  "  what  fevers  and 
steamboats  you  have — vous  avez  Id  las  ! " 

In  short,  he  proved  a  very  entertaining  companion ; 
and  upon  our  arrival  at  the  station  of  the  Customs,  he 
presented  me,  with  a  good  deal  of  ceremony,  to  the 
presiding  officer  as  the  Consul  of  the  United  States. 
It  was  the  first  time  (indeed,  one  of  the  few  times) 
upon  which  I  had  received  official  recognition.  The 
Customsman  bowed  twice,  and  I  bowed  twice  in  return. 
The  presentation  proved  very  serviceable  to  me,  as 
it  was  the  means  of  relieving  me  from  a  very  serious 
difficulty  shortly  after. 

My  passport,  as  I  have  already  remarked,  was 
wholly  in  manuscript  ;  and  the  only  characters  at  all 
conspicuous  in  it  were  those  which  made  up  the  name 
of  "  WM.  L.  MAKCY."  I  do  not  mean  to  attribute  to 
that  gentleman  the  vanity  of  wishing  to  appear  more 
important  than  the  Consul,  even  in  the  instrument  with 
which  I  was  fortified.  But  the  truth  was,  that  the  Sec 
retary  of  State's  signature,  being  in  his  stout  autograph, 
was  quite  noticeable  in  contrast  with  the  light,  clerkly 
flourishes  by  which  it  was  surrounded. 


ACCOUNT  OF  A    CONSULATE.  81 

In  short,  it  was  presumed  at  the  guard-house  that 
my  papers  gave  protection — if  they  gave  protection  to 
anybody  (which  seems  to  have  been  doubted) — to  Mr* 
Wni,  L.  Marcy.  I  was  entered,  therefore,  upon  the 
police  record  under  that  name  But  on  discovery  of 
the  fact  that  my  luggage  bore  a  different  address,  it 
was  further  presumed  that  Mr.  Marcy  had  purloined 
the  effects  of  another  party ;  and  under  this  apprehen 
sion,  I  came  very  near  being  placed  in  confinement. 

I  explained  the  matter  eagerly,  but  had  considerable 
difficulty  in  making  the  officials  understand  that  I  was 
really  not  Mr.  Marcy  ;  and  not  being  Mr.  Marcy,  could 
not  be  accused  of  any  misdeeds  attributable  to  that  gen 
tleman.  I  furthermore  explained,  as  well  as  I  was 
able,  that  Mr.  Marcy  was  a  grand  homme  (and  here  the 
French  came  gracefully  to  my  aid) — that  he  was,  in 
short,  a  man  of  great  distinction — highly  esteemed  in 
the  country  from  which  I  came,  and  absolutely  retained 
there  by  his  official  duties,  making  it  utterly  impossible 
for  him  to  be  travelling  just  now  upon  the  Continent  of 
Europe,  even  with  his  own  luggage — setting  aside  the 
calumny  of  his  having  take  2  possession  of  another 
man's. 

I  fear,  however,  that  all  would  have   been  of  no 
avail,  if  the  Customsman  had  not  been  sent  for,  and 
had  not  come  gallantly  to  my  relief.     I  was  indeb/ed  to 
him — under  Providence — for  my  escape. 
4* 


82  SEVEN  STORIES. 

Upon  anival  at  my  port  of  destination,  I  was  evi 
den  tly  regarded  with  considerable  suspicion,  la  com 
mon  with  some  fifty  others,  I  was  packed  in  a  small 
barrack-room  until  decision  should  be  had  upon  our 
papers  of  admission.  After  very  much  earnest  study 
of  iny  passport,  both  within  and  without,  the  chief  of 
the  examining  department  (who  was  a  scholarly  man 
deputed  for  that  employment)  seemed  to  understand  that 
I  had  come  in  the  professed  quality  of  Consul. 

He  asked  me,  in  a  solemn  tone,  if  the  fact  was  as 
he  had  surmised  ? 

I  told  him.  eagerly,  that  he  was  quite  correct. 

Upon  this  he  gave  me  a  ticket  of  admission,  author 
izing  me  to  enter  the  town,  and  advising  me  to  apply 
in  two  days'  time  at  the  bureau  of  police  for  my  pass 
port  or  a  permit  of  residence. 

I  took  lodgings  at  a  respectable  hotel,  and  was  pres 
ently  found  out  by  a  shrewd  fellow  (a  Swiss,  I  think), 
who  executed  the  languages  for  the  house.  He  wished 
to  know  if  I  would  like  to  engage  him  for  *  the  sights.' 

I  replied  in  a  playful  way — disguising  as  much  aa 
possible  my  dignity — that  I  was  to  stop  some  time  ; 
that  I  was,  in  short,  Consul  for  the  United  States,  and 
ghould  probably  have  many  leisure  opportunities. 

He  felt  sure  I  would.  He  took  off  his  hat,  and 
showed  tokens  of  respect  for  the  office  which  I  never 
met  with  before — nor  since. 


ACCOUNT  OF  A    CONSULATE.  83 

I  beg  to  recommend  him  to  any  party  travelling  in 
that  direction  ;  his  name  is,  I  think,  Giacomo  Guarini ; 
aged  forty-five,  and  broad  in  the  shoulders,  with  a  slight 
lisp  in  his  English. 

By  his  advice  I  called  at  the  bureau  of  the  police, 
where  I  made  known  my  quality  of  Consul.  They  were 
sorry,  the  officials  said,  that  they  had  no  information 
of  that  kind.  I  expressed  some  surprise,  and  stated 
that  I  had  the  honor  to  bring  the  information  myself — 
alluding  to  the  passport. 

They  observed  that,  though  this  information  was 
very  good  for  me,  as  coming  from  my  Government,  it 
was  hardly  so  good  for  them,  Avho  awaited  all  such  in 
formation  from  their  Government.  Not  having  yet  con 
sulted  Vattel  very  thoroughly,  I  did  not  deem  it  prudent 
to  reply  hastily  to  this  first  diplomatic  proposition.  If, 
indeed,  there  had  been  an  eagle  on  the  passport ! 

The  officials  informed  me  that,  if  I  wished  to  stay 
in  the  town,  I  could  do  so  by  paying  ten  zwanzigers 
(about  a  dollar  and  a  half  our  money)  for  a  permit. 

I  asked  how  it  would  be  if  I  purchased  no  such 
permit  ? 

In  that  case  I  must  leave  (though  it  was  very  kindly 
expressed) . 

I  reflected  that,  all  things  considered,  it  would  be 
better  to  stay.  My  experience  with  my  passport,  thus 
far,  had  not  been  such  as  to  warrant  any  great  reliance 


84  SEVEN  STORIES. 

on  that  instrument.  Indeed,  I  think  I  should  advise  a 
friend  anticipating  travel  (for  pleasure),  to  provide  him 
self  with  a  private  passport. 

This  point  being  settled,  I  looked  over  my  official 
papers  and  found  a  letter  addressed  by  the  Secretary  of 
State  to  the  "  Present  Incumbent "  of  the  office,  request 
ing  him  to  deliver  into  my  keeping  the  seals,  flags, 
stools,  and  arms  of  the  office. 

I  made  inquiries  regarding  him.  Nobody  about 
the  hotel  seemed  to  know  him,  or,  indeed,  ever  to  have 
heard  of  him.  I  had  fortunately  a  private  letter  to  a 
banker  of  the  town  (exceedingly  useful  to  me  afterward). 
I  called  upon  him,  and  renewed  my  inquiries.  He 

regretted,  he  said,  to  inform  me  that  Mr. ,  the 

late  acting  Consul,  had  only  the  last  week  committed 
suicide  by  jumping  out  of  his  office-window  into  the 
dock. 

I  must  confess  that  I  was  shocked  by  this  announce 
ment.  I  hoped  it  was  not  owing  to  any  embarrassments 
arising  out  of  his  official  position.  The  banker,  who 
was  a  polite  man,  regretted  that  he  could  not  inform  me. 

I  must  not  omit  to  mention  that  the  letter  of  the 
Secretary  of  State,  requesting  the  supposed  incumbent 
to  deliver  up  the  papers,  the  seals,  the  stools,  etc.,  con 
tained  (through  some  error  of  the  clerk)  the  name  of 
some  other  person  than  myself  as  the  proper  recipient ; 
BO  that  I  had,  from  the  time  of  my  landing  in  Europe, 


AC C 01  NT  OF  A    CONSULATE.  85 

entertained  considerable  doubt  about  the  success  sf  my 
application.  It  was  then  with  a  feeling  of  some  relief — 
tempered  by  humane  regrets — that  I  learned  of  tl  e  un- 
timely  fate  of  the  individual  to  whom  the  official  demand 
was  addressed.  I  at  once  destroyed  the  letter  which 
might  have  invalidated  my  claim,  and  pursued  my  in 
quiries  in  regard  to  the  papers,  the  flag,  the  stamps,  and 
the  stools. 

Through  the  kindness  of  my  banker  I  succeeded  in 
tracing  them  to  the  office  of  a  Jewish  ship-broker,  whom 
I  found  wrapped  in  a  bear-skin  coat,  and  smoking  a 
very  yellow  meerschaum.  He  spoke  English  charm 
ingly.  He  said  he  had  succeeded  (I  could  scarce  tell 
how)  to  the  late  incumbent. 

I  asked  about  the  suicide. 

The  Israelite  tapped  his  forehead  with  his  skinny 
fore-finger,  waved  it  back  and  forth  for  a  moment,  and 
left  me  in  a  very  distressing  state  of  perplexity. 

I  asked  after  the  flag,  the  sign-board,  the  table,  etc. 
He  said  they  were  deposited  in  his  garret,  and  should  bo 
delivered  up  whenever  I  desired.  He  informed  me  fur 
ther  that  he  knew  of  my  appointment  through  a  para 
graph  in  Galignani's  Messenger.  It  seemed  an  odd  way 
of  establishing  my  claim,  to  be  sure  ;  but  from  the  ex 
perience  I  had  already  found  with  my  passport,  I  thought 
it  was  not  worth  while  to  shake  the  Jewish  gentleman's 
belief  by  referring  him  to  that  instrument. 


86  SEVEN  STORIES. 

I  bon  owed  the  ship-broker's  seal — the  consular  seal 
—and  addressed  a  note  to  the  chief  authority  of  the  port 
(in  obedience  to  home  instructions),  informing  him  of 
my  appointment.  I  furthermore  addressed  a  large  let 
ter  to  the  '  Department,'  acquainting  them  with  my  safe 
arrival,  and  with  the  sad  bereavement  of  the  State  in 
the  loss  of  the  late  acting  Consul.  (I  learned  afterward 
that  he  had  been  a  small  ship-broker,  of  Hebrew  ex 
traction,  and  suspected  of  insanity.) 

The  governor  of  the  port  replied  to  me  after  a  few 
days,  informing  me,  courteously,  that  whenever  tho 
Central  Government  should  be  pleased  to  recognise  my 
appointment,  he  would  acquaint  me  with  that  fact. 

My  next  object  was  to  find  lodgings ;  and  as  the 
instructions  enjoined  attendance  from  ten  until  four,  it 
was  desirable  that  the  office  should  be  an  agreeable  one, 
and,  if  possible,  contiguous  to  sleeping  quarters. 

The  old  Jewish  gentleman,  indeed,  kindly  offered  to 
relieve  me  of  all  the  embarrassments  of  the  business ; 
but  I  showed  him  a  copy  of  the  new  instructions,  which 
would  not  admit  of  my  taking  into  employ  any  other 
than  a  naturalized  citizen.  I  thought  he  seemed  amused 
at  this  ;  he  certainly  twisted  his  tongue  within  his  cheek 
in  a  very  peculiar  manner.  Still  he  was  courteous. 

I  succeeded  at  length  in  finding  very  airy  quarters, 
with  a  large  office — connected  with  the  sleeping  apart 
ment  by  a  garden.  A  bell-rope  was  attached  to  the  office 


ACCOUNT  OF  A    CONSULATE.  87 

door,  and  the  bell  being  upon  the  exterior  wall,  within 
the  garden,  could  be  distinctly  heard  throughout  the 
apartment.  This  arrangement  proved  a  very  conve 
nient  one.  As  only  three  or  four  American  ships  were 
ULaerstood  to  arrive  in  the  course  of  the  year,  and  as 
the  office  was  damp  and  mouldy — being  just  upon  the 
water's  side — I  did  not  think  it  necessary  (viewing  the 
bell)  to  remain  there  constantly  from  ten  until  four.  I 
sincerely  hope  that  the  latitude  which  I  took  in  this  re 
spect  will  be  looked  on  favorably  by  the  Home  Govern 
ment.  Indeed,  considering  the  frequent  travel  of  my 
fellow-diplomats  the  past  season,  I  think  I  may  without 
exaggeration  presume  upon  indulgence. 

I  remained  quietly  one  or  two  weeks  waiting  for 
recognition.  Occasionally  I  walked  down  by  the  outer 
harbor  to  enjoy  the  sight  of  an  American  bark  which 
just  then  happened  to  be  in  port,  and  whose  commander 
I  ^ad  the  honor  of  meeting  at  the  office  of  the  Jewish 
Bhi{  -broker. 

After  six  weeks  of  comparative  quietude — broken 
only  by  mailing  an  occasional  large  letter*  to  the  De 
partment — I  assumed,  under  official  sanction,  the  bold 

*  It  snould  be  mentioned  that  Government  now  generously 
assumes  the  cost  of  all  paper,  wax,  ink,  and  steel  pens  consumed  in 
the  consular  service.  I  believe  the  consular  system  is  indebted  fo* 
this  to  the  liberal  administrative  capacity  of  Mr.  Edward  Everett, 
ute  of  the  State  Department. 


£8  SEVEN  STORIES. 

step  of  taking  possession  of  the  seals,  the  papers,  the 
etools,  the  flag,  and  the  arms.  They  were  conveyed  to 
tne,  on  the  twelfth  of  the  month,  in  a  boat.  I  shall  not 
soon  forget  the  occasion.  The  sun  shone  brightly.  The 
"arms"  filled  up  the  bow  of  the  skiff;  the  papers,  the 
stools,  and  the  flag,  were  lying  in  the  stern-sheets.  I 
felt  a  glow  at  sight  of  the  flag,  though  it  was  small  and 
somewhat  torn.  If  the  office  should  prove  lucrative.  I 
determined  to  buy  another  at  my  own  cost.  The  siga- 
board,  or  "  arms"  was  large — larger  than  any  I  had  yet 
seen  in  the  place  ;  much  larger  than  the  Imperial  arms 
over  the  Governor's  doors.  I  should  say  it  must  have 
been  six  feet  long  by  four  broad.  The  eagle  was  grand, 
and  soared  upon  a  blue  sky  ;  the  olive  branch,  in  imita 
tion  of  nature,  was  green  ;  the  darts  of  a  lively  red. 

And  yet,  I  must  admit,  it  seemed  to  me  out  of  all 
proportion  to  the  flag  and  to  the  shipping.  I  thought  it 
must  have  been  ordered  by  a  sanguine  man.  It  re 
minded  me  of  what  I  had  heard  of  the  United  States 
arms,  erected  in  the  Crystal  Palace  of  London.  I  fear 
ed  it  was  too  large  for  the  business.  I  never  liked,  I 
must  confess,  that  sort  of  disproportion.  If  I  might  use 
a  figurative  expression, — I  should  say  that  I  had  never 
a  great  fancy  for  those  fowls  which  crow  loudly,  but 
never  lay  any  eggs. 

If  the  "  arms  "  had  been  of  ordinary  size,  I  should 
have  raised  it  ipon  my  roof.  My  serving  man  wag 


ACCOUNT  OF  A    CONSULATE.  8& 

anxious  to  do  so.  But  I  reflected  xhat  only  one  Amer 
ican  ship  was  then  in  port ;  that  it  was  quite  uncertain 
when  another  would  arrive.  I  reflected  that  the  office- 
furniture  was  inconsiderable  ;  even  one  of  the  stools  al 
luded  to  in  the  official  list  brought  to  my  notice  at 
Washington,  had  disappeared ;  and  instead  of  nine 
blank  passports  there  were  now  only  seven.  I  therefore 
retained  the  sign  in  my  office,  though  it  filled  up  valu 
able  space  there.  I  gave  a  formal  receipt  for  the  flag, 
the  stamps,  the  arms,  the  stool,  the  table,  the  record 
books,  and  for  a  considerable  budget  of  old  papers  in  a 
very  tattered  condition. 

Two  days  after,  I  received  a  bill  from  the  late  Jew 
ish  incumbent  to  the  amount  of  twenty-five  dollars,  for 
repairs  to  flag  and  "  arms."  Having  already  given  a 
receipt  for  the  same,  and  communicated  intelligence 
thereof  to  the  seat  of  government,  I  felt  reluctantly 
compelled  to  decline  payment ;  I  proposed,  however,  to 
forward  the  bill  to  the  Department  with  all  the  neces 
sary  vouchers.  The  Jewish  broker  finding  the  matter 
was  assuming  this  serious  aspect,  told  me  that  the  fee 
was  a  usual  one  on  a  change  of  consulate  ;  and  assured 
me  jocularly,  that  as  the  consulate  was  changed  on  an 
average  every  eighteen  months,  the  sign-board  was  the 
most  profitable  part  of  the  business.  I  observed,  in 
deed,  that  the  paint  was  vary  thick  upon  it ;  and  it  ap« 
peared  to  have  been  spliced  on  one  or  two  occasions- 


90  SE  VEN  STORIES. 

Tliere  arrived,  not  long  after,  to  my  address,  by  tha 
way  of  the  Marseilles  steamer,  a  somewhat  bulky  pack 
age.  I  conjectured  that  it  contained  a  few  knick-knacks, 
which  I  had  requested  a  friend  to  forward  to  me  fr  Jm  a 
home  port.  By  dint  of  a  heavy  bribe  to  the  customs 
men,  added  to  the  usual  port  charges,  I  succeeded  in 
securing  its  delivery  without  delay.  It  proved  to  be  a 
set  of  the  United  States  Statutes  at  Large,  heavily  bound 
in  law  calf.  A  United  States  eagle  was  deeply  branded 
upon  the  backs  of  the  volumes.  There  was  evidently  a 
distrust  of  the  consular  character.  The  thought  of  this, 
in  connection  with  the  late  suicide,  affected  me  pain 
fully.  I  thought — looking  upon  the  effects  around  me 
— that  I  should  not  like  to  be  reduced  so  far  as  to  rob 
my  consulate ! 

I  found  many  hours  of  amusement  in  looking  over 
the  records  of  the  office  ;  they  were  very  brief,  especially 
in  the  letter  department.  And  on  comparing  the  condi 
tion  of  the  records  with  my  consular  instructions,  I  was 
struck  with  an  extraordinary  discrepancy.  The  law, 
for  instance,  enjoined  copies  to  be  made  of  all  letters 
iKspatched  from  the  office ;  but  with  the  exception  of 
three  or  four,  dated  some  fifteen  years  back,  I  could  not 
find  that  any  had  been  entered.  Indeed,  one  of  my 
predecessors  had  taken  a  very  short,  and  as  it  seemed 
to  me,  a  very  ingenious  method  of  recording  correspond' 
cnce — in  this  way  : 


ACCOUNT  OF  A    CONSULATE.  91 

"April  1.     "Wrote  Department,  informing  them  of 
arrival. 

"  June  5.     Wrote  the  Governor. 

"  June  7.  Received  reply  from  the  Governor,  say 
ing  he  had  got  my  letter. 

u  June  9.  Wrote  the  Governor,  blowing  up  the 
postoffice  people  for  breaking  open  my  letters. 

"  July.  Wrote  home  for  leave  of  absence,  and  quit 
the  office." 

I  think  it  was  about  a  week  after  the  installment  of 
the  flag  and  arms  in  my  office,  that  I  received  a  very 
voluminous  packet  from  a  native  of  the  port,  who  gave 
me  a  great  many  titles,  and  informed  me  in  the  language 
of  the  country  (in  exceedingly  fine  writing) ,  that  he  was 
the  discoverer  of  a  tremendous  explosive  machine,  cal 
culated  to  destroy  fleets  at  a  great  distance,  and  to  put 
an  end  to  all  marine  warfare.  He  intimated  that  he 
was  possessed  of  republican  feelings,  and  would  dispose 
of  his  discovery  to  the  United  States — for  a  considera 
tion.  After  a  few  days — during  which  I  had  accom 
plished  the  perusal — he  called  for  my  reply. 

I  asked,  perhaps  from  impertinent  curiosity,  if  he 
had  made  any  overtures  to  his  own  government  ? 

He  said  he  had. 

I  asked,  with  what  success  ? 

He  said  they  had  treated  him  with  indignity,  and 
from  the  explanatory  gestures  he  made  use  of  to  con* 
firm  this  statement,  I  have  no  doubt  they  did. 


92  SEVEN  STORIES. 

He  said  that  genius  must  look  for  lucrative  patronage 
beyond  the  ocean,  and  glanced  wistfully  at  the  "  arms." 
I  told  him — turning  my  own  regard  in  the  same  di 
rection — that  the  United  States  Government  was  cer 
tainly  a  very  rich  and  powerful  one.  But,  I  added — 
it  was  not  in  the  habit  of  paying  away  large  sums* 
of  money  even  to  native  genius ;  not  even,  I  continued 
sportively,  to  consular  genius.  I  told  him,  if  he  would 
draw  up  a  plan  and  model  of  his  machine,  I  should  be 
happy  to  inclose  it  in  my  budget  of  dispatches,  for  the 
consideration  of  the  distinguished  gentleman  at  the  head 
of  the  Navy  Department. 

He  asked  me  if  I  would  add  a  strong  opinion  in  its 
favor  ? 

I  told  him  that  I  had  not  long  been  connected  with 
the  shipping  interests  of  my  country,  and  was  hardly 
capable  of  forming  an  opinion  about  the  merits  of  the 
marine  machine  he  was  good  enough  to  bring  under  my 
notice.  I  was  compelled  further  to  observe,  that  I  did 
not  think  a  very  high  estimate  was  placed  by  govern 
ment  upon  consular  opinions  of  any  sort.  The  poor 
man  seemed  satisfied — looked  wistfully  again  at  the 
44  arms  "  as  if  they  implied  very  extensive  protection — 
bade  me  good  morning,  and  withdrew. 

*  This  record,  dating  ten  years  back,  must  not  be  understood 
to  impugn  the  economy  of  the  present  administration — whose  dis 
bursements  may  safely  be  regarded  as — liberal. 


ACCOUNT  OF  A    CONSULATE,  93 

The  weeks  wore  on,  and  there  was  no  American 
arrival ;  nor  did  I  hear  anything  of  my  recognition  by 
the  Central  Government.  I  drew  up  in  a  careful  man 
ner,  two  new  record  books  in  obedience  to  law,  and 
transcribed  therein  my  various  notes  to  the  department 
and  foreign  personages,  in  a  manner  that  I  am  sure  was 
utterly  unprecedented  in  the  annals  of  the  office.  I 
prepared  the  blank  of  a  passport  for  signature — in  case 
one  should  be  needed — thus  reducing  the  effective  num 
ber  of  those  instruments  to  six.  I  even  drew  up  the 
blank  of  a  bill  against  Captain  Blank  (to  be  filled  up  on 
arrival)  for  Hank  charges.  Most  of  my  charges,  in 
deed,  may  be  said  to  have  been  blank  charges. 

On  one  occasion,  about  three  weeks  after  full  pos 
session  of  the  "  effects,"  there  was  a  violent  ring  at  the 
office  bell.  I  hurried  down  with  my  record  books  and 
inkstand,  which  I  had  transferred  for  security  to  my 
sleeping  quarters.  It  proved,  however,  to  be  a  false 
alarm :  it  was  a  servant  who  had  rung  at  the  wrong 
door.  He  asked  my  pardon  in  a  courteous  manner,  and 
went  away.  I  replaced  the  record  books  in  the  office 
drawer,  and  retired  to  my  apartment. 

I  think  it  was  some  two  or  three  days  after  this, 

when  I  heard  of  a  large  ship  standing  "  off  and  on"  at 

the  mouth  of  the  harbor.     I  was  encouraged  to  think, 

by  a  friendly  party,  that  she  might  be  an  American 

'  vessel.    I  even  went  upon  the  tower  of  the  town  f  o  have 


94  SEVEN  STORIES. 

a  look  at  her  with  my  spy-glass  (a  private  spy-glass), 
There  was  no  flag  flying ;  and  she  was  too  far  off  to 
make  her  out  by  the  rig.  She  came  up,  however,  the 
next  day,  and  proved  to  be  a  British  bark  from  New 
castle. 

Matters  were  in  this  condition,  the  office  wearing 
its  usual  quiet  air,  when  I  was  waited  on  one  morning 
by  a  weazen-faced  little  gentleman,  who  spoke  English 
with  pertinacity,  and  a  slight  accent.  He  informed  me 
that  he  had  been  at  one  period  incumbent  of  the  office 
which  I  now  held.  He  asked,  in  a  kind  manner,  after 
the  Government  ? 

I  thanked  him,  and  told  him  that  by  last  advices 
they  were  all  very  well. 

He  said  that  he  was  familiar  with  the  details  of  the 
consular  business,  and  would  be  happy  to  be  of  service 
to  me. 

I  thanked  him  in  the  kindest  manner  ;  but  assured 
him  that  the  business  was  not  yet  of  so  pressing  a  char 
acter  as  to  demand  an  assistant.  (Indeed,  with  the  ex 
ception  of  four  or  five  letters  dispatched  in  various 
directions,  and  the  preparation  of  the  blanks  already 
alluded  to,  I  had,  in  the  course  of  two  or  three  months, 
performed  no  important  consular  act  whatever.)  My 
visitor  diverted  consideration  as  gracefully  as  his  Eng 
lish  would  allow,  to  the  climate  and  the  society  of 
the  port.  He  said  he  should  be  happy  to  be  of  service 


ACCOUNT  OF  A   CONSULATE.  95 

to  me  in  a  social  way ;  and  alluded  to  one  or  two  gov 
ernment  balls  which,  on  different  occasions,  he  had  the 
honor  of  attending  in  a  consular  capacity.  I  thanked 
him  again,  without,  however,  preferring  any  very  special 
request. 

After  musing  a  moment,  he  resumed  conversation 
by  asking  me  "  if  I  had  a  coat  ?  " 

I  did  not  fully  understand  him  at  first ;  and  replied 
at  a  venture,  that  I  had  several. 

"  Very  true,"  said  he,  "  but  have  you  the  but 
tons  ?" 

I  saw  that  he  alluded  to  the  official  costume,  and 
told  him  that  I  had  not.  Whereupon  he  said  that  he 
had  only  worn  his  coat  upon  one  or  two  occasions  ;  and 
he  thought  that,  with  a  slight  alteration,  it  would  suit 
admirably  my  figure. 

I  thanked  him  again ;  but  taking  from  the  drawer 
the  thin  copy  of  consular  instructions,  I  read  to  him 
those  portions  which  regarded  the  new  order  respecting 
plain  clothes.  I  told  him,  in  short,  that  the  blue  and 
the  gilt  (for  I  had  not  then  heard  of  the  re-introduction 
of  the  dress  system  in  various  European  capitals)  had 
utterly  gone  by.  He  seemed  disappointed  ;  but  present 
ly  recovered  animation,  and  remarked  that  he  had  in 
his  possession  a  large  American  flag,  which  he  had 
purchased  while  holding  the  consular  office,  and  which 
(as  the  Government  had  declined  paying  for  the  same), 


96  SEVEN-  STORIES. 

he  would  be  happy  to  sell  to  me  at  a  great  reduction  oil 
the  original  cost. 

I  told  him  that  the  affairs  of  the  consulate  were  still 
in  an  unsettled  state  ;  but  in  the  event  of  business  turn 
ing  out  well,  I  thought  that  the  Government  might  be 
induced  to  enter  into  negotiations  for  the  purchase. 
(I  had  my  private  doubts  of  this,  however.) 

At  my  mention  of  the  Government  again,  he  seemed 
disheartened.  He  soon  asked  me,  in  his  broken  man 
ner  (I  think  he  was  of  Dutch  origin),  "  If  the  Gouver- 
man  vass  not  a  ittle  mean  about  tose  tings  ?  " 

I  coughed  at  this  ;  very  much  as  the  stationer,  Mr. 
Snagsby,  used  to  cough  when  he  made  an  observation 
in  Mrs.  Sriagsby's  presence.  But,  collecting  myself,  I 
said  that  the  Government  had  shown  great  liberality  in 
the  sign-board,  and  doubted  if  a  larger  one  was  to  be 
found  in  Europe.  He  surprised  me,  however,  by  in 
forming  me  in  a  prompt  manner,  that  he  had  expended 
a  pound  sterling  upon  it,  out  of  his  own  pocket ! 

I  hoped,  mildly,  that  he  had  been  reimbursed.  He 
replied,  smartly,  that  he  had  not  been.  He  continued 
courteous,  however ;  and  would,  I  think,  upon  proper 
representations  on  the  part  of  the  Government,  be  will 
ing  to  resume  negotiations. 

A  fortnight  more  succeeded,  during  which  several 
bills  came  in — for  the  record  books,  postage,  hire  of 
an  office-boat,  rent  of  office,  beside  some  repairs  I  had 


ACCOUNT  OF  A    CONSULATE.  97 

ordered  to  the  office  table.  I  had  even  gone  so  far  as 
to  buy  a  few  bottles  of  old  wine,  and  a  package  of 
Havana  tigars,  for  the  entertainment  of  any  friendly 
captains  who  might  arrive.  Affairs  were  in  this  con 
dition  when  I  heard,  one  morning,  upon  the  public 
square  of  the  town,  that  an  American  vessel  had  been 
seen  some  miles  down  the  gulf,  and  it  was  thought 
that  she  might  bear  up  for  this  harbor.  I  went  home 
to  my  rooms  in  a  state  of  excitement  it  is  quite  impos 
sible  to  describe.  I  dusted  the  record  books,  and  rub 
bed  up  the  backs  of  the  United  States  Statutes  at  Large. 
(I  should  have  mentioned  that  I  had  added  my  private 
copy  of  Vattel  to  the  consular  library ;  together,  they 
really  made  an  imposing  appearance.) 

I  took  the  precaution  of  oiling  the  pulley  'to  the  office 
bell.  My  servant-man  had  hinted  that  it  had  some 
times  failed  to  ring.  I  ordered  him  to  give  it  repeated 
trials,  while  I  took  up  a  position  in  my  apartment.  It 
rang  distinctly,  and  so  vigorously  that  I  feared  the  occu 
pants  of  the  adjoining  house  might  be  disturbed.  I 
therefore  approached  the  window,  and  giving  a  concert 
ed  signal,  ordered  my  serving-man  to  abstain. 

He  was  evidently  in  high  spirits  at  the  good  order 
in  which  matters  stood.  He  renewed  his  proposal  to 
place  the  sign-board  upon  the  roof  of  the  house.  I 
found,  however,  upon  inquiry,  that  it  would  involve  the 
labor  of  three  men  for  half  a  day  ;  I  therefore  abandoned 
5 


98  SEVEN  STORIES. 

the  idea.  I  authorized  him,  however,  to  apply  a  fresh 
coating  of  varnish,  and  to  place  it  in  a  conspicuous  po 
sition  upon  the  side  of  the  office  fronting  the  door. 

He  wiped  his  forehead,  and  said  it  was  a  "  disegnetto 
meraviglioso" — a  wonderful  little  design  ! 

The  wind  continued  for  some  days  northerly,  and  no 
vessel  came  into  port.  On  the  fourth  day,  however,  I 
received  a  note  from  a  friendly  party,  stating  that  an 
American  bark  had  arrived.  I  gave  a  dollar  to  the 
messenger  who  brought  the  news.  I  saw  the  intelli 
gence  confirmed  in  the  evening  journal.  I  was  in 
great  trepidation  all  the  following  day.  At  length,  a 
little  after  the  town  clock  had  struck  twelve,  the  cap 
tain  came.  I  hurried  into  the  office  to  meet  him.  He 
was  a  tall,  blear-eyed  man,  in  a  damaged  black  beaver 
with  a  narrow  rim,  tight-sleeved  black  dress-coat,  and 
cowhide  boots. 

I  greeted  him  warmly,  and  asked  him  how  he  was  ? 

He  thanked  me,  and  said  he  was  "  pretty  smart." 
I  regretted  that  I  had  not  some  rum-and- water.  The 
old  wine  I  did  not  think  he  would  appreciate.  In  short, 
I  was  disappointed  in  my  countryman.  I  should  not 
like  to  have  sailed  with  him,  much  less  to  have  served 
under  him.  Before  leaving  the  office,  he  cautioned  me 
against  a  sailor  who  might  possibly  come  to  me  with  his 
"cussed"  complaints  :  he  said  he  was  an  "  ugly  devil," 
and  1  had  best  have  nothing  to  do  with  him. 


ACCOUNT  OF  A   CONSULATE.  99 

True  enough,  the  next  morning  a  poor  fellow  pre 
sented  himself,  speaking  very  broken  English,  and  com 
plaining  that  he  was  sadly  abused — showing,  indeed,  a 
black  eye,  and  a  lip  frightfully  bloated.  I  ordered  my 
serving-man  to  prepare  him  a  little  breakfast.  This 
was  not,  perhaps,  a  legitimate  consular  attention,  but  it 
proved  a  grateful  one  ;  and  the  man  consumed  two  or 
three  slices  of  broiled  ham  with  extraordinary  relish. 
After  this  he  told  me  a  long  story  of  the  abuses  he  had 
undergone,  and  of  his  desire  to  get  a  discharge.  I 
asked  him  if  he  had  an  American  protection  ?  He 
said  he  had  bought  one  upon  the  dock  in  New  York, 
shortly  before  sailing,  and  had  paid  a  half  eagle  for  it, 
but  it  was  lost. 

This  was  unfortunate ;  and  upon  referring  to  the 
ship's  crew  list,  I  found  that  the  customs'  clerk  had  dis 
patched  the  whole  subject  of  nationalities  in  a  very  sum 
mary  manner.  He  had  written  the  words  "  U.  States" 
up  and  down  the  sheet  in  such  an  affluent  style  as  to 
cover  two-thirds,  or  three-quarters  or,  (reckoning  the 
nourishes  of  his  capitals)  even  the  whole  body  of  the 
crew.  Now  as  some  four  or  five  of  them  were  notori 
ously,  and  avowedly,  as  foreign  as  foreign  birth,  lan 
guage  and  residence  could  make  them,  I  was  compelled 
to  think  lightly  of  the  authority  of  the  customs'  clerk. 

The  Consular  Instructions,  moreover,  I  found  were 
not  very  definite  in  regard  1o  the  circumstances  under 


1 00  SEVEN  STORIES 

which  a  discharge  might  be  granted.  But  the  most  try 
ing  difficulty  of  all  was  the  fact  that  I  was  not  as  yet — 
in  the  eyes  of  the  authorities — a  Consul  at  all.  Al 
though  I  might  discharge  the  poor  fellow,  I  could  neither 
procure  him  admittance  to  the  hospital,  or  furnish  him 
with  such  papers  as  would  be  counted  valid.  I  could, 
indeed,  protect  him  under  the  shadow  of  the  arms  and 
the  flag ;  but  should  he  tire  of  the  broiled  ham,  and 
venture  an  escapade,  he  might,  for  aught  that  I  knew, 
be  clapped  into  prison  as  a  vagabond. 

I  stated  the  matter  to  him  cautiously ;  alluding, 
Avith  some  embarrassment,  to  my  own  present  lack  of 
authority  ;  advising  him  of  the  comparative  infrequency 
of  American  vessels  at  that  port ;  and  counselling  him, 
in  sober  earnest,  to  stick  by  the  ship,  if  possible,  until 
he  reached  an  adjoining  port,  where  he  would  find  a 
recognized  consul  and  more  abundant  shipping. 

The  consequence  was,  the  poor  fellow  slunk  back  to 
his  ship,  and  the  captain  assured  me,  in  a  gay  humor, 
(I  fear  it  was  his  habit  to  joke  in  such  matters  with 
brother  Consuls),  that  he  ugot  a  good  lamming  for  his 
pains." 

When  the  vessel  was  ready  to  leave,  I  made  out  her 
papers.  I  doubt  very  much  if  any  ship's  papers  were 
ever  made  out  with  nicer  attention  to  formalities.  I 
warmed  up  the  stamp  and  printer's  ink  for  some  hours 
by  a  low  fire,  in  order  to  secure  a  good  impression  of 


ACCOUNT  OF  A    CONSULATE.  101 

the  consular  seal.  Without  vanity,  I  may  say  that  I 
succeeded.  I  doubt  if  such  distinct  impressions  were 
ever  before  issued  from  that  office.  The  bill  was,  1 
think,  a  model  in  its  way ;  it  certainly  was  so  for  its 
amount ;  for  though  I  strained  it  to  the  full  limit  of  the 
Instructions,  it  fell  at  least  one-third  short  of  the  usual 
bills  upon  the  record. 

Upon  the  day  of  sailing  (and  I  furnished  my  serving- 
man  with  an  extra  bottle  of  wine  on  the  occasion),  I 
presented  myself  at  the  office  of  the  Port  Captain,  with 
the  usual  vouchers  respecting  the  ship  and  crew  under 
my  charge.  To  my  great  vexation,  however,  that  gen 
tleman  politely  informed  me  that  he  was  not  yet  advised 
officially  of  my  appointment — that  my  seal  and  signa 
ture  in  short  (so  elaborately  done)  were  of  no  possible 
service. 

The  skipper  who  attended  me,  rubbed  his  hat  with 
his  elbow  in  a  disturbed  manner. 

"What  was  to  be  done  ? 

The  Captain  of  the  Port  suggested  that  he  was  him 
self  empowered  to  act  as  Consul  for  such  powers  as 
were  unrepresented ;  and  he  instanced,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  some  of  the  Barbary  States. 

I  withdrew  my  papers,  and  my  charge  for  services 
which  had  proved  so  unavailing.  I  am  afraid  I  was 
petulant  to  the  serving-man.  Thus  far  the  Consulate 
had  not  come  up  to  expectations.  I  began  to  distrust 


102  SEVEN  ST01UES. 

the  value  of  the  place.  1  wrote  off  a  sheet  full  of  expos 
tulations  to  the  Governor  ;  another  to  the  authorities  at 
home ;  and  a  third  to  our  representative  at  the  Court. 
Thip  last  promised  very  strenuous  exertion  in  my 
behalf;  and  he  was  as  good  as  his  word;  for  a  week 
after  I  was  gratified  with  a  sight  of  my  name,  regularly 
gazetted  under  the  "  Official  heading"  of  the  daily  jour 
nals  of  the  place.  The  same  evening  the  Governor  of 
the  Port  addressed  to  me  an  official  note,  upon  an  im 
mense  sheet  of  foolscap,  giving  the  information  already 
conveyed  to  me  in  the  Gazette. 

Nor  was  this  the  end  of  my  triumph ;  for  the  next 
day.  or  shortly  afterward,  a  band  of  street  performers 
on  various  instruments  (chiefly,  however,  their  lungs), 
came  under  my  windows  in  a  body,  and  played  several 
gratulatory  airs  to  my  success  in  procuring  recognition. 
They  even  followed  up  the  music  by  shouting  in  a  most 
exhilarating  manner.  It  showed  kind-feeling ;  and  I 
was  just  observing  to  myself  the  hospitable  interest  of 
these  people,  when  my  serving-man  entered  in  great 
glee,  and  informed  me  that  it  was  usual  on  these  occa 
sions  to  pay  a  small  fee  to  the  performers. 

I  can  hardly  say  I  was  surprised  at  this  ;  I  asked — 
how  much  ?  He  said  he  would  count  them,  and  thought 
about  three  shillings  apiece  (our  money*)  would  be 

*  I  mean  by  this,  of  the  value  of  our  Government  money ;  and 
not,  literally,  Government  money;  of  which,  indeed,  I  saw  verf 
little — very. 


ACCOUNT  OF  A    CONSULATE.  103 

sufficient.  As  there  were  but  fifteen,  I  did  not  think  it 
high.  I  wondered  if  it  had  been  the  habit  to  charge 
this  matter  in  the  stationery  account  ? 

The  day  after  (for  now  I  seemed  to  be  growing  rap 
idly  in  importance),  I  received  a  very  bulky  package 
from  the  chief  of  police,  inclosing  the  passport,  unpaid 
bills,  subscription  papers,  recommendations,  and  police 
descriptions  of  one  David  Humfries,  who,  I  was  inform 
ed,  was  in  the  port  prison,  for  various  misdemeanors — 
chiefly  for  vagabondage  ;  and  who,  being  an  American 
citizen,  was  at  my  disposal.  The  chief  of  police  ex 
pressed  a  wish  that  I  would  take  charge  of  the  same, 
and  put  him  out  of  the  country. 

I  examined  the  papers.  They  were  curious.  He 
appeared  to  have  figured  in  a  variety  of  characters.  An 
Italian  subscription  list  represented  him  as  the  father 
of  a  needy  family.  A  German  one  of  about  the  same 
date,  expressed  a  desire  that  charitable  people  would  as 
sist  a  stranger  in  returning  to  his  home  and  friends  at 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  Among  the  bills  was  a  rather 
long  one  for  beer  and  brandy. 

I  thought  it  would  be  patriotic  to  call  upon  my 
countryman.  I  therefore  left  a  note  "  absent  on  busi 
ness,"  in  the  office  window,  and  called  at  the  prison.  I 
was  ushered,  under  the  charge  of  an  official,  into  a  din 
gy,  grated  room  upon  the  second  floor,  and  was  present 
ed  to  a  stout  negro-man,  who  met  me  with  great  self* 


104  SEVEN'  STORIES. 

possession, — apologized  for  his  dress  (which  indeed  was 
somewhat  scanty) ,  and  assured  me  that  he  was  not  the 
man  lie  seemed. 

I  found  him  indeed  possessed  of  somewhat  rare  ac 
complishments,  speaking  German  and  French  with  very 
much  the  same  facility  as  English.  He  informed  me 
that  he  was  a  native  of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  though 
a  naturalized  citizen  of  the  country  I  represented.  His 
passport  was  certainly  perfectly  in  order,  and  signed  by 
a  late  Charge,  Mr.  Foote  of  Vienna.  He  assured  me 
farther,  that  he  was  of  excellent  family ;  and  that  his 
father  was  a  respectable  man,  well  known  in  New 
York,  and  the  head  of  a  large  school  in  that  city.  I 
told  him  of  the  application  of  the  police,  and  of  their 
wish  to  be  rid  of  him. 

He  did  not  appear  to  manifest  resentment ;  but  said 
he  would  consent  to  any  reasonable  arrangement.  He 
had  no  objection  to  go  to  New  York,  provided  his 
wardrobe  were  put  in  a  proper  condition.  He  should 
be  sorry,  he  said,  to  meet  the  old  gentleman  (meaning 
the  schoolmaster)  in  his  present  guise. 

I  told  him  I  was  sorry  that  the  law  did  not  warrant 
me  in  finding  him  a  wardrobe,  and  that  only  by  a  fic 
tion  could  I  class  him  among  seamen,  and  provide  him 
with  a  passage  home.  Upon  this,  he  avowed  himself 
(in  calm  weather)  a  capital  sailor,  and  said  he  had  once 
served  as  cook. 


ACCOUNT  OF  A    CONSULATE.  105 

I  accordingly  wrote  to  the  authorities,  engaging  to 
ship  him  by  the  first  American  vessel  which  should 
touch  the  port.  By  rare  accident  this  happened  a  fort- 
uight  after ;  and  having  given  a  receipt  for  the  black 
man,  besides  supplying  him  with  a  few  flannel  shirts  at 
my  own  cost,  I  succeeded  in  placing  him  on  board  a 
home-bound  ship,  by  giving  the  captain  an  order  on  the 
Treasury  for  ten  dollars  ;  the  captain  intimating,  mean 
time,  that  "  he  would  get  thirty  dollars'  worth  of  work 
out  of  him,  or  take  off  his  black  skin." 

I  did  not  envy  the  black  man  his  voyage :  I  have 
not  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  from  Mr.  Humfries 
since  that  date. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  arrival  of  a  second  American 
ship  ;  such  was  the  fact.  I  need  not  say  that  the  papers 
were  made  out  in  the  same  style  as  the  previous  ones  ;  I 
had  now  gained  considerable  facility  in  the  use  of  the 
seal.  Upon  the  payment  of  the  fees  I  ventured  to  at 
tach  the  seal  to  my  receipt  for  the  same.  It  was  not 
necessary — it  was  not  usual  even  ;  still  I  did  it.  If  the 
occasion  were  to  be  renewed,  I  think  I  should  do  it 
again. 

Not  long  after  this  accession  of  business,  which  gave 
me  considerable  hopes  of — in  time — replacing  the  flag, 
I  received  a  visit  from  an  Italian  gentleman  just  arrived 
from  New  York,  where  he  had  been  an  attache  to  an 
opera  troupe.  He  informed  me  with  some  trepidation 
5* 


106  SEVEN  STORIES. 

that  the  authorities  were  not  satisfied  with  his  papers, 
and  had  given  him  notice  to  return  by  sea. 

I  asked  him  if  he  was  an  American  :  whereupon  h« 
si  lowed  me  a  court  certificate  of  his  intentions  to  become 
a  citizen,  dated  a  couple  of  days  before  his  leave,  and 
with  it  an  imposing-looking  paper,  illustrated  by  a  stu 
pendous  eagle.  This  last,  however,  I  found  upon  ex 
amination,  was  only  the  instrument  of  an  ambitious 
Notary  Public,  who  testified,  thereby,  to  the  genuine 
character  of  the  court  certificate,  and  at  the  same  time 
invited  all  foreign  powers  to  treat  the  man  becomingly. 
The  paper,  indeed,  had  very  much  the  air  of  a  passport, 
and,  by  the  Italian's  account,  had  cost  a  good  deal  more. 

I  told  him  I  should  be  happy  to  do  what  I  could  for 
him,  and  would  cheerfully  add  my  testimony  to  the  bona 
fide  character  of  the  court  certificate. 

The  man,  however,  wished  a  passport. 

I  told  him  that  the  only  form  of  passport  of  which 
I  knew  (and  I  showed  the  six  blanks),  involved  a 
solemn  declaration  on  my  part,  that  the  party  named 
was  an  American  citizen.  The  Italian  gentleman  al 
luded  to  M.  Koszta  and  the  New-York  Herald. 

I  expressed  an  interest  in  both ;  but  told  him  that  I 
had  as  yet  n«  knowledge  of  the  correspondence  in  the 
Koszta  affair ;  that  there  had  been  no  change  in  the 
consular  instructions  (and  I  showed  him  the  little  pam 
phlet). 


V 


ACCOUNT  OF  A    CONSULATE.  107 

I  promised,  however,  to  communicate  with  the 
Charge,  who  might  be  in  possession  of  later  advices ; 
and,  in  addition,  offered  to  intercede  with  the  authori 
ties  to  grant  permission  to  an  unoffending  gentleman  to 
visit  his  friends  in  the  country. 

Upon  this  I  undertook  a  considerable  series  of  notes 
and  letters, — by  far  the  most  elaborate  and  numerous 
which  had  yet  issued  from  my  consular  bureau.  I  will 
not  presume  to  say  how  many  there  were,  or  how  many 
visits  I  paid  to  the  lodging-quarters  of  the  suspected 
gentleman.  I  found  it  requisite, — to  secure  him  any 
freedom  of  action, — to  become  sponsor  for  his  good  con 
duct.  I  need  not  say  (after  this)  that  I  felt  great  so 
licitude  about  him. 

The  notice  of  "  absent  on  business"  became  almost 
a  fixture  in  the  office  window.  I  had  written  previous 
ly  to  the  Department  for  instructions  in  the  event  of 
such  application  ;  I  had  never  received  them  ;  indeed  I 
never  did.  The  Charge  flatteringly  confirmed  my  ac 
tion,  and  "  relied  on  my  discretion."  I  was  sorry  to 
find  he  relied  so  much  upon  it. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  an  office  involving  so  large 
discretion  should,  at  the  least,  have  better  furniture,. 
The  stool,  though  now  repaired,  was  a  small  stool.  1 
gat  upon  it  nervously.  The  "Statutes  at  Large"  I 
looked  on  with  pride  and  satisfaction.  I  had  inaugu 
rated  them  so  to  speak,  in  the  office.  I  placed  my  lit- 


108  SEVEN  STORIES, 

tie  Vattel  by  the  side  of  them  ;  I  hope  it  is  there  now-  - 
though  there  was  no  eagle  on  the  back. 

To  return  to  the  Italian  gentleman,  I  at  length  suc 
ceeded  in  giving  him  a  safe  clearance.  I  think  he  was 
grateful :  he  certainly  wore  a  grateful  air  when  he  left 
my  office  for  the  last  time,  and  I  felt  rewarded  for  my 
labor.  It  was  the  only  reward,  indeed,  I  received  :  if  he 
had  offered  a  fee,  I  think  I  should  have  declined.  Was 
I  not  there,  indeed,  for  the  service  of  my  countrymen, 
and  of  my  intended  countrymen  ?  Of  course  I  was. 

The  day  after  the  Italian  gentleman  left  I  paid  my 
office  rent  for  the  current  month,  besides  a  small  bill  the 
serving-man  brought  me  for  the  caulking  of  the  office 
boat.  It  appeared  that  it  had  grounded  with  the  tide, 
and  without  our  knowledge  (there  being  no  American 
ships  in  port),  had  remained  exposed  for  several  days 
to  the  sun. 

Keeping  the  office  in  business  trim,  and  sitting  upon 
the  office  stool,  I  received,  one  day,  a  very  large  packet, 
under  the  seal  of  the  Department.  I  had  not  heard 
from  Washington  in  a  long  time,  and  it  was  a  pleasant 
surprise  to  me.  Possibly  it  might  be  some  new  and 
valuable  commission ;  possibly,  it  might  bring  the  de 
tails  of  the  proposed  change  in  the  Consular  system. 
Who  knew  ? 

In  such  an  event  I  wondered  what  the  probable  sal 
ary  would  be  at  my  post;  something  handsome,  no 


ACCOUNT  OF  A    CONSULATE.  109 

doubt.  I  glanced  at  the  "  arms  "  of  my  country  with 
pride,  and  (there  being  no  American  ship  in  port), 
broke  open  the  packet. 

It  contained  two  circulars,  embracing  a  series  of 
questions,  ninety  in  number,  in  regard  to  ship-building, 
ship-timber,  rigging,  hemp,  steamships,  fuel,  provision 
ing  of  vessels,  light-house  dues,  expenses  of  harbor, 
depth  of  ditto,  good  anchorages,  currents,  winds,  cutting 
of  channels,  buoys,  rates  of  wages,  apprentices,  stowage 
facilities,  prices  current,  duties,  protests,  officers  of  port, 
manufactures,  trade  facilities,  leakages,  wear  and  tear, 
languages,  pilots,  book  publication,  etc.,  etc.,  on  all  of 
which  points  the  circulars  requested  full  information,  as 
soon  as  practicable,  in  a  tabular  form,  with  a  list  of 
such  works  as  were  published  on  kindred  subjects,  to 
gether  with  all  Government  orders  in  regard  to  any,  or 
all  of  the  suggested  subjects,  which  were  in  pamphlet 
form ;  and  if  in  a  foreign  language,  the  same  to  be  ac 
curately  translated  into  American. 

The  accompanying  letter  stated  that  it  was  proposed 
to  allow  no  remuneration  for  the  same ;  but  added, 
"  faithful  acquittal  of  the  proposed  task  will  be  favora 
bly  viewed." 

I  reflected — (I  sometimes  do  reflect). 

A  respectable  reply  even  to  the  questions  suggested, 
would,  supposing  every  facility  was  thrown  in  my  way 
-  by  port  officers  and  others,  involve  the  labor  of  at  leasf 


110  SEVEN  STORIES. 

six  weeks,  and  the  writing  over  of  at  least  ninety  larga 
pages  of  foolscap  paper  (upon  which  it  was  requested 
that  the  report  should  be  made). 

I  reflected,  farther — that  the  port  officer,  as  yet  af 
fecting  a  large  share  of  his  old  ignorance,  would,  upon 
presentation  of  even  the  first  inquiries  as  to  the  depth  of 
the  harbor,  send  me  to  the  guard-house  as  a  suspicious 
person ;  or,  recognizing  my  capacity,  would  report  the 
question  as  a  diplomatic  one  to  the  Governor ;  who 
would  report  it  back  to  the  Central  Cabinet ;  who  would 
report  it  back  to  the  maritime  commander  in  an  adjoin 
ing  city ;  who  would  communicate  on  the  subject  with 
the  police  of  the  port ;  who  would  communicate  back 
with  the  marine  intendant ;  who  would  report  accord 
ingly  to  the  Central  Government ;  who  would  in  due 
time  acquaint  the  Charg6  at  the  capital  with  their  con 
clusions. 

I  reflected — that  I  had  already  expended,  on  behalf 
of  the  Government,  more  of  time  and  of  money  than 
I  should  probably  (there  being  no  American  ship  in 
port)  ever  receive  again  at  their  hands. 

I  reflected — that  life  was,  so  to  speak,  limited ;  and 
that  in  case  I  should  determine  to  give  it  up  lo  gratu 
itous  work  for  my  country,  or,  indeed,  for  any  party 
whatever, — I  should  prefer  that  the  object  of  my  char 
ity  should  be  a  needy  object. 

I  reflected — that  I  had  given  bonds  hi  the  sum  oi 


ACCOUNT  OF  A    CONSULATE.  \\\ 

two  thousand  dollars  (with  sound  bondsmen)  for  the 
stool,  the  blank  passports,  the  pewter  and  brass  seals, 
the  small-sized  flag,  and  the  "  arms  ; "  and  I  examined 
them  with  attention. 

I  reflected — that  while  these  things  were  in  a  capital 
state  of  preservation,  and  my  health  still  unimpaired,  I 
had  better  withdraw  from  office. 

I  therefore  sent  in  my  resignation. 

I  do  not  think  there  has  been  any  omission  in  the 
performance  of  my  consular  duties  ;  it  involved,  indeed, 
a  more  expensive  charity  on  my  part  than  I  am  in  the 
habit  of  extending  to  the  indigent.  I  trust  that  the 
Government  is  grateful. 

In  overlooking  my  books  I  find  charges  against  the 
Government  for  nineteen  dollars  and  sixty-three  cents 
for  postages  and  stationery.  To  make  the  sum  an  even 
one  I  have  drawn  on  the  Government  (after  the  form 
prescribed  in  the  consular  instructions)  for  twenty  dol 
lars,  making  an  over-draft  of  thirty-seven  cents,  for 
which  I  hope  the  Government  will  take  into  considera 
tion  my  office  and  boat  rent,  my  time  and  repairs  to 
the  consular  stool. 

Finding  the  draft  difficult  of  negotiation  upon  the 
great  European  exchanges,  I  may  add  that  I  have  car 
ried  it  for  a  long  time  in  my  pocket.  Should  it  be  even 
tually  paid,  I  shall  find  myself  in  possession, — by  adding 
the  thirty-seven  cents  to  sums  received  in  fees  during 


112  8E  YEN  STORIES. 

the  period  of  my  consulate, — of  the  amount  of  some 
thirty  dollars,  more  or  less. 

I  have  not  yet  determined  how  to  invest  this.  I  am 
hoping  that  Mr.  Powers,  who  I  hear  wears  the  title  of 
Consul,  will  find  some  pretty  Florentine  model-woman 
to  make  an  "  America"  of.  If  he  does  so,  and  will  sell 
a  small  plaster  cast  at  a  reasonable  price,  I  will  huy  it 
with  my  consular  income,  and  install  the  figure  (if  not 
too  nude)  in  my  study,  as  a  consular  monument. 

I  shall  be  happy  to  welcome  my  successor ;  I  will 
give  him  all  the  aid  in  my  power  ;  I  will  present  him  to 
the  ten-penny  reading-room,  and  shall  be  happy  to  in 
scribe  his  name  in  advance  at  either  of  the  hotels.  I 
will  inform  him  of  the  usual  anchorage  ground  of 
American  ships,  so  far  as  my  observation  has  gone.  I 
shall  be  pleased  to  point  out  to  him,  through  the  indul 
gence  of  my  serving-man,  the  best  grocer's  shop  in  the 
port,  and  another  where  are  sold  wines  and  varnish. 

Should  the  office-stool  require  repair,  I  think  I  could 
recommend  with  confidence  a  small  journeyman  joiner 
in  a  neighboring  court. 

He  will  have  my  best  hopes  for  lucrative  employ 
ment  in  his  new  position,  and  for  happiness  generally. 

For  myself,  consular  recollections  are  not,  I  regret 
to  say,  pleasant.  I  do  not  write  "  Ex-United  States 
Consul"  after  my  name.  I  doubt  if  I  ever  shall. 

All  my  disturbed  dreams  at  present  take  a  consular 


ACCOUNT  OF  A    CONSULATE.  H3 

form.  I  waked  out  of  a  horrid  night-mare  only  a  few 
nights  since,  in  which  I  fancied  that  I  was  bobbing  about 
fearfully  in  a  boat — crashing  against  piles  and  door 
posts — waiting  vainly  for  an  American  captain. 

I  have  no  objection  to  serve  my  country ;  I  have 
sometimes  thought  of  enlisting  in  the  dragoons.  I  am 
told  they  have  comfortable  rations,  and  two  suits  of 
clothes  in  a  year.  But  I  pray  Heaven  that  I  may  never 
again  be  deluded  into  the  acceptance  of  a  small  consu 
late  on  the  Mediterranean. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

THE  foregoing  story  of  a  Consulate  was  written  in 
the  year  1854,  and  by  a  singular  mishap,  which 
gave  the  seal  to  my  marine  misfortunes,  the  first  draft 
of  it  went  down  in  the  ill-fated  steamer  Arctic.  In  the 
following  year,  however,  it  was  re-written,  and  given 
to  the  public  in  the  columns  of  Harper's  Magazine. 

Since  that  date,  I  am  happy  to  say  that  our  Foreign 
Consulates  have  been  placed  upon  a  more  dignified 
footing.  Every  man  who  represents  the  government 
abroad  is  insured  at  least  so  much  of  stipend,  as  to  ena 
ble  him  to  caulk  his  own  boat,  and  to  wear  his  own  coat. 
It  is  to  be  hoped  that  under  the  new  dispensation,  the 
consular  business,  at  the  port  alluded  to,  is  progress 
ing  swimmingly.  Indeed,  the  natural  features  of  the 


114  SEVEN  STORIES. 

port — which,   without   impropriety,   I    may   name    as 
Venice — strongly  encourage  this  belief. 

With  unimportant  exceptions,  I  have  never  held 
official  position  since  that  day.  I  have  indeed  served 
as  one  of  five  vestry-men  in  a  small  church  of  ten  male 
members ;  but  it  being  thought  desirable  to  rotate,  so 
as  to  give  a  kind  of  official  dignity  to  all  the  congrega 
tion,  I  count  at  the  present  writing, — simply  as  pew- 
holder.  I  was  also  (if  the  reader  will  excuse  the  ego 
tism)  at  one  time  a  director  in  a  thriving  Horticultural 
Society :  but  after  a  series  of  errors  in  the  adjustment 
of  the  qualities  of  different  fruits,  and  a  shocking  dis 
play  of  ignorance  in  respect  to  the  merits  of  certain  new 
seeds  sent  out  by  the  Patent  Office,  I  was — to  use  the 
amiable  expression — retired  from  the  direction.  The 
place  is  now  held,  I  believe,  by  a  gentleman  who  cour 
ageously  plants  and  eats  the  Dioscorea  Batata.  Such 
a  man  deserves  reward ;  and  if  it  did  not  come  in  the 
way  of  official  honor,  I  haidly  know  in  what  way  it 
could  come. 


THIRD  STORY: 


THE    PETIT    SOULIBB, 


THIRD  STORY: 


The  Petit  Soulier. 


MY  old  friend  the  Abbe  G- ,  who  on  my  earliest 
visit  to  Paris,  not  only  taught  me  French,  but 
put  me  in  the  way  of  a  great  deal  of  familiar  talk- 
practice  with  his  pleasant  bourgeois  friends,  lived  in  a 
certain  dark  corner  of  a  hotel  in  the  Rue  de  Seine,  or 
in  the  Rue  de  la  Harpe ;  which  of  the  two  it  was  I 
really  forget.  At  any  rate,  the  hotel  was  very  old,  and 
the  street  out  of  which  I  used  to  step  into  its  ill-paved 
triangular  court  was  very  narrow,  and  very  dirty. 

At  the  end  of  the  court,  farthest  from  the  entrance- 
way,  was  the  box  of  the  concierge,  who  was  a  brisk 
little  shoe-maker,  forever  bethwacking  his  lap-stone. 
If  I  remember  rightly,  the  hammer  of  this  little  cordon' 
nicr  made  the  only  sound  that  broke  the  stillness  with 
in  ;  for  though  the  hotel  was  full  of  lodgers,  I  think  I 
never  saw  two  of  them  together ;  and  it  is  quite  cer 


1 1 8  SEVEN  STORIES. 

tain,  that  even  in  mid-summer,  no  voices  were  ever  to 
be  heard  talking  across  the  court. 

At  this  distance  of  time,  I  do  not  think  it  would  be 
possible  for  me  to  describe  accurately  all  the  windings 
of  the  corridor  which  led  to  the  Abbe's  door.  I  remem 
ber  that  the  first  part  was  damp  and  low — that  after  it, 
came  a  sweaty  old  stairway  of  stone  ;  and  once  arrived 
at  the  top  of  this,  I  used  to  traverse  an  open-sided  gal 
lery  which  looked  down  upon  a  quiet  interior  court ; 
then  came  a  little  wooden  wicket,  dank  with  long  hand 
ling — which  when  it  opened  tinkled  a  bell.  Sometimes 
the  Abbe  would  hear  the  bell,  and  open  his  door,  down 
at  the  end  of  some  farther  passage  ;  and  sometimes  a 
lodger,  occupying  a  room  that  looked  upon  the  last 
mentioned  court,  would  draw  slyly  a  corner  of  his  cur 
tain,  and  peep  out  to  see  who  might  be  passing.  Occa 
sionally  I  would  amuse  myself  by  giving  to  the  little 
warning  bell  an  unnecessary  tinkle,  in  order  that  I  might 
study  some  of  the  faces  which  should  peer  out  from  the 
lodgments  upon  the  court;  yet  I  saw  very  little  to 
gratify  me  ;  and  upon  the  damp  flagging  which  covered 
the  area  of  the  court,  I  rarely  saw  any  one  moving ;  at 
most,  only  a  decrepit  old  woman  shuffling  along  with 
broom  in  hand;  or  a  boy,  in  paper  cap,  from  some 
neighboring  shop,  whistling  an  air  he  may  have  caught 
from  the  orchestra  at  the  Odeon,  and  disappearing 
through  a  dilapidated  door  way — the  only  one  to  be 
seen. 


THE  PETIT  SOUL1ER.  119 

It  appeared  to  me  a  quarter,  that  with  its  quaint, 
old  fashioned  windows,  piling  story  above  story,  and  its 
oppressive  quietude,  ought  to  show  some  face  or  figure 
that  should  pique  curiosity,  and  so  relieve  the  dulness 
of  my  lessons  with  the  good  Abbe.  But  all  the  faces 
that  met  my  eye  were  the  most  matter  of  fact  in  the 
world. 

From  time  to  time,  as  we  passed  out  through  the 
open-sided  corridor,  I  would  draw  the  Abbu's  attention 
to  the  silent  court,  and  ask — who  lived  in  the  little 
room  at  the  top  ? 

"  Ah,  mon  cher,  I  do  not  know." 

Or,  "  who  lives  in  the  corner,  with  the  narrow  loop 
hole,  and  the  striped  curtain  ?  " 

"  I  can  not  tell  you,  mon  cher." 

"And  whose  is  the  little  window  with  so  many 
broken  panes,  and  an  old  placard  pinned  against  the 
sash?" 

"  Ah,  who  knows  ?  perhaps  a  rag-picker,  or  a  shop 
man  or  perhaps" and  the  Abbe  lifted  his  finger, 

shaking  his  head  expressively — "  It  is  a  strange  world 
we  live  in,  mon  ami." 

What  could  the  Abb  6  mean  ?  I  looked  up  at  the 
window  again :  it  was  small,  and  the  glass  was  set  in 
rough  metal  casing  :  it  must  have  been  upon  the  fourth 
or  the  fifth  floor ;  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen 
within,  save  the  dirty  yellow  placard. 


120  SEVEN  STORIEH. 

"  Is  it  in  the  same  hotel  with  you  ?"  said  I. 

"  Ma  /oi,  I  do  not  know." 

The  Abbe  had  unconsciously  given  a  little  foot-hold, 
by  aid  of  which  my  imagination  might  climb  into  a 
good  romance.  The  chamber  must  be  small ;  indeed, 
there  were  few,  even  upon  the  first  floor,  in  that  neigh 
borhood,  which  were  large.  Comfortless,  too,  no  doubt ; 
the  yellow  placard  told  me  how  that  must  be. 

I  cannot  undertake  to  describe  all  that  fancy  painted 
to  me,  in  connection  with  that  window  of  the  dreary, 
silent  hotel.  Did  some  miserly  old  scoundrel  live  in  the 
chamber,  who  counted  his  hoardings  night  after  night  ? 
Was  it  some  apprentice  boy  from  the  provinces  who  had 
pinned  up  the  yellow  placard — more  to  shut  out  the  in 
truding  air,  than  the  light  ?  I  even  lingered  very  late 
at  the  AbbG's  rooms,  to  see  if  I  could  detect  by  the  glow 
of  any  lamp  within  the  chamber,  the  figure  of  its  occu 
pant.  But  either  the  light  was  too  feeble  or  the  occu 
pants  were  too  quiet.  Week  after  week,  as  I  threaded 
every  day  the  corridor,  I  looked  out  at  the  brooding, 
gloomy  windows,  and  upon  the  mouldy  pavement  of  the 
court,  hoping  for  a  change  of  aspect,  that  would  stimu 
late  curiosity,  or  give  some  hint  of  the  character  of  the 
lodgers.  But  no  such  change  appeared:  day  after  day, 
there  remained  the  same  provoking  quietude  ;  nor  could 
I  with  all  my  art  seduce  the  good-natured  Abbe  into 
any  appetizing  conjectures  in  regard  to  the  character  of 
his  neighbors. 


T11JS  PETIT  SOULIER.  121 

My  observation  at  last  grew  very  careless,  and  I 
suspect  would  have  been  abandoned  altogether,  if  I  had 
not  one  day  in  my  casual  glances  about  the  dim  court, 
noticed  a  fragment  of  lace  hanging  within  the  little 
window  where  we  had  seen  the  yellow  placard.  Rich 
lace  it  was  too.  My  occasional  study  of  the  shop  win 
dows  enabled  me  to  give  competent  judgment  on  this 
score.  It  may  have  been  a  bridal  veil ; — but  whose  ? 
I  could  hardly  have  believed  that  a  bit  of  dainty  femi 
nine  attire  should  on  a  sudden  have  lent  such  new  in 
terest  to  the  court  of  this  dingy  old  lodging  house  of 
Paris.  And  yet  it  was  as  if  a  little  wood-bird  straying 
in,  had  filled  the  whole  court  with  a  blithe  song. 

There  are  some  of  us  who  never  get  over  listening 
to  those  songs. 

I  wanted  to  share  my  enthusiasm  with  the  good 
Abbe, — so  told  him  what  I  had  seen. 

"  And  you  think  there  is  a  bride  quartered  there, 
mon  ami f "  And  he  shook  his  head :  "It  is  more 
likely  a  broidery  girl  who  is  drudging  at  a  bit  of 
finery  for  some  magasin  de  luxe,  which  will  pay  the 
poor  girl  only  half  the  value  of  her  work." 

I  could  not  gainsay  this :  "  And  have  you  seen 
her  ?"  said  I. 

"  Mon  ami,  (very  seriously)  I  do  not  know  if  there 
is  any  such  ;  and — tenez — mon  enfant — gardez  vous  lien 
d'en  savoir  j>lus  que  moi  I " 
6 


122  SEVEN  STORIES. 

A  few  wee^s  later — it  was  on  a  winter's  morning, 
after  a  light  snow  had  fallen — I  chanced  to  glance  over 
iato  the  court,  upon  which  the  window  that  had  so 
piqued  my  curiosity  looked  down,  and  saw  there  tho 
print  of  a  lady's  slipper.  It  was  scarce  larger  than  my 
hand — too  delicately  formed  to  have  been  left  by  a 
child's  foot — least  of  all  by  the  foot  of  such  children  as 
I  saw  from  time  to  time  in  the  neighboring  hotels.  I 
could  not  but  associate  it  with  the  lace  veil  I  had  seen 
above.  I  felt  sure  that  no  broidery  girl  could  leave 
such  delicate  foot-print  on  the  snow.  Even  the  shop 
girls  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  or  the  tidiest  Lorettes, 
would  be  crazed  with  envy,  at  sight  of  so  dainty  a 
slipper. 

Through  all  the  morning  lesson — I  was  then  read 
ing  La  Grammaire  des  Grammaires — I  could  think  of 
nothing  but  the  pretty  foot-track  in  the  snow. 

After  lesson,  the  Abbe  took  his  usual  stroll  with 
me  ;  and  as  we  traversed  the  corridor,  I  threw  my  eye 
over  carelessly — as  if  it  had  been  my  first  observation 
— saying,  "  My  dear  Abbe,  the  snow  tells  tales  this 
morning." 

The  Abbe  looked  curiously  down,  ran  his  eye  rap 
idly  over  the  adjoining  windows,  shook  his  hend  expres 
sively,  and  said,  as  he  glanced  d?wn  again,  "  C'etait  un 
fort  joli  petit  soulier,  mon  ami." 

"  Whose  was  it  ?"  said  I. 


THE  PETIT  SOU  LIE R.  123 

"  Ah,  tnon  enfant^  I  do  not  know." 

"  Can  any  broidery  girl  boast  such  a  foot  ?" 

"  Mon  enfant"  (with  a  despairing  manner)  "  how 
could  I  know  ?  " 

Such  little,  unimportant  circumstances  as  I  have 
noted,  would  never  have  occasioned  remark  in  a  courl 
of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli :  but  in  this  mouldy  quarter, 
which  by  common  consent  was  given  over  to  lodging- 
house  keepers,  grisettes,  shop-men,  sub-officials,  medical 
students,  and  occasional  priests,  any  evidences  of  femi 
nine  delicacy  or  refinement — and  as  such  I  could  not 
forbear  counting  both  foot-print,  and  veil — were  harshly 
out  of  place.  Great  misfortune,  or  great  crime  could 
alone  drift  them  into  so  dreary  a  corner  of  the  old  city. 

I  hinted  as  much  to  the  Abba. 

"  Possibly,"  said  he  ;  "  ah,  mon  enfant — if  the  world 
were  only  better  !  Great  misfortunes  and  great  crime 
are  all  around  us." 

I  seized  a  sly  occasion  to  consult  the  concierge; 
— were  there  any  female  lodgers  in  the  house  ?  The 
little  shoe-maker — with  his  hammer  suspended,  and  a 
merry  twinkle  in  his  eye — says,  "  Oui,  monsieur — tho 
aunt  of  the  tobacconist  at  the  corner — belle  femme  I" 

"No  others  ?" 

"  Personnel 

And  do  the  little  windows  looking  upon  the  inner 
court  belong  to  the  hotel?  he  doubts  it;  if  monsieur 


1 24  SEVEN  STORIES- 

wishes,  he  will  go  see  :  and  he  lays  down  his  hammer, 
and  comes  upon  the  corridor — "  no  ;  he  knows  nothing 
of  them ;  the  entrance  must  be  two,  perhaps  three 
doors  below." 

From  morning  to  morning,  before  my  lessons  be 
gin,  I  loiter  about  the  entrance  to  the  adjoining  courts  ; 
but  I  saw  nothing  to  quicken  my  curiosity  or  to  throw 

* 

any  light  upon  the  little  waifs  of  story  which  I  had 
seen  in  the  veil  and  the  foot-prints.  Stolid,  common 
place  people  only,  plodded  in  and  out  of  the  entrance 
gates,  to  which  my  observation  was  now  extended  ;  hag 
gard  old  women  clattering  over  the  pavement  in  sabots, 
or  possibly  a  tidily  dressed  shop-girl,  whose  figure  alone 
would  forbid  any  association  with  the  delicate  foot-print 
in  the  snow.  I  remarked  indeed  an  elderly  man  in  a 
faded  military  cloak  muffled  closely  about  him,  passing 
out  on  one  or  two  occasions  from  the  third  court  below 
the  hotel  of  the  Abb6  :  his  figure  and  ^ait  were  certain 
ly  totally  unlike  the  habitues  of  the  quarter ;  but  hia 
presence  there,  even  though  connected  with  the  little 
window  of  the  dreary  court,  would  only  add  to  the 
mystery  of  the  foot-print  and  of  the  lace. 

It  happened  upon  a  certain  morning,  not  long  after, 
as  I  paced  through  the  open  corridor,  and  threw  a 
glance  up  at  the  loop-hole  upon  which  I  had  chosen 
to  fasten  my  freak  of  observation  that  I  saw  a  slight 
change:  a  muslin  handkerchief  was •  stretched  acrosa 


THE  rETIT  SOULIER.  125 

tli 8  window,  within  the  placard,  (I  could  plainly  see  its 
embroidered  border,)  and  while  I  stood  regarding  it,  a 
delicate  pair  of  hands  (the  taper  fingers  I  saw  plainly) 
removed  the  fastenings,  and  presently  this  other  token 
of  feminine  presence  was  gone. 

I  told  the  Abbe  of  my  observation. 

He  closed  his  book  "  La  Grammaire  des  Gram- 
maires" — (keeping  his  thumb  at  the  place  of  our  lesson) 
and  gave  me,  I  dare  say,  an  admirable  little  lecture, — 
which  certainly  was  not  in  the  grammar.  I  know  the 
French  was  good ;  I  believe  the  sentiment  was  good ; 
but  all  the  while  of  its  delivery,  my  imagination  was 
busy  in  conjuring  into  form  some  charming  neighbor 
of  whom  I  had  only  seen  the  delicate,  frail  fingers,  and 
the  wonderful  foot-print  on  the  snow. 

When  he  had  finished  the  lecture,  we  accomplished 
the  lesson. 

My  next  adventure  in  way  of  discovery  was  with 

the  little  concierge,  who  presided  over  the  court  where  I 

• 
had  seen  the  tall  gentleman  of  the  military  cloak,  pass 

in.  He  was  quietly  dipping  his  roll  in  a  bowl  of  coffee, 
when  I  commenced  my  inquiries. 

"Were  there  any  rooms  in  the  hotel  to  be  let  ?" 
JS  ot  that  I  desired  a  change  from  my  comfortable  quar 
ters  over  the  river ;  but  it  seemed  to  me  the  happiest 
method  of  conciliating  a  communicative  temper. 

"  Old,  monsieur"  responds  the  brisk  concierge,  aj 


126  SE  YEN  STORIES. 

lie  gives  his  roll  a  drip  upon  the  edge  of  his  colfes 
bowl,  and  with  a  cheering,  heavy  lite — takes  down  a 
key  here,  and  a  key  there,  until  he  is  provided  for  all 
the  rooms  at  his  disposition.  We  mount  together  damp 
stone  stair-ways  and  enter  upon  apartments  with  glazed 
tile  floors ;  we  mount  higher  to  waxed,  oaken  parque- 
terie ;  but  I  like  the  full  glow  of  the  sun  ;  we  must  go 
higher.  Upon  the  fourth  floor,  there  is  a  vacant  room  ; 
its  solitary  window  has  a  striped  red  curtain,  and  it 
looks  out — as  I  suspected — upon  the  court  of  the  open 
corridor,  where  I  had  so  long  carried  on  my  furtive  ob 
servations.  The  window  which  had  particularly  ar 
rested  my  attention,  must  be  just  above. 

"  Was  there  no  room  still  higher  ?  " 

"  Parbleu,  il  y  en  a  une ;  monsieur  ne  se  fdche  pas 
de  monter,  done  f  " 

No,  I  love  the  air  and  the  sunshine.  But  the  little 
room  into  which  he  shows  me  looks  into  a  strange 
court  I  do  not  know ;  I  bustle  out,  and  toward  the  op 
posite  door. 

"  Pardon,  monsieur;  it  is  occupied." 

And  even  as  he  speaks,  the  door  opens ;  an  old 
white  haired  gentleman,  the  very  one  I  have  seen  in  the 
military  cloak  looks  out,  disturbed ;  and  (I  think  it  is 
not  a  fancy)  there  is  the  whisk  of  a  silk  dress  moving 
within. 

The  concierge  makes  his  apologies,  and  we  go  below. 


THE  PETIT  SOULIER.  127 

"  Will  the  chamber  occupied  by  the  old  gentleman 
be  vacant  soon  ?  " 

"  It  is  possible,''  but  he  cannot  truly  say. 

Farther  down  the  stairs  we  encounter  the  wife  of 
the  concierge,  at  her  work.  He  appeals  to  her :  "  Does 
Monsieur  Verier  leave  soon  ?  " 

She  cannot  say.  The  marriage  is  off;  and  he  may 
stay. 

It  gives  me  a  hint  for  further  inquiry. 

"  Esl-ce  gue  ce  vieux  va  se  warier,  done  f  " 

"Pardon,  monsieur;  but  he  has  a  daughter.  Ah, 
qu'elle  est  gentille !  (and  the  concierge  looks  upward 
reverently.)  There  was  a  marriage  arranged,  and  the 
old  gentleman  was  to  live  with  the  daughter.  But  as 
my  wife  says — it's  off  now:  the  old  man  has  his 
humors." 

So  at  last  the  bridal  veil  was  explained. 

"  But  does  the  daughter  lodge  here  with  the  father  ?  " 
said  I. 

"Ah,  no,  monsieur  ;  impossible  :  a  chamber  at  fifty 
francs  too  !  It's  very  droll ;  and  the  daughter  drives 
in  a  grand  coach  to  the  door ;  but  it's  not  often ;  and 
my  wife  who  showed  her  the  chamber  tells  me  that 
their  first  meeting — and  it  was  after  the  old  gentleman 
bad  been  here  a  month  or  more — was  as  if  they  had 
not  met  in  years.  She  conies  mostly  of  an  evening  or 
early  morning,  when  few  are  stirring,  as  if  she  wer« 


1 28  SE  VEN  STORIES. 

afraid  to  be  seen,  and  she  is  veiled  and  muffled  in  a 
shawl  too — cependant  elle  est  gentille.  Tenez"  said  he, 
pointing  to  a  charming  little  lithographic  head  of  St. 
Agnes,  in  his  conciergerie  (which  we  had  now  reached) 
u  void  sa  tite  ! " 

"  j^nd  has  she  no  attendant  upon  her  visits?  " 

"  Ma  foi,  I  cannot  tell  you  :  once  or  twice  a  gentle 
man  has  descended  from  the  carriage  into  the  court,  as 
if  to  watch  for  her — but  who  it  may  have  been  I  know 
no  more  than  you.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  monsieur,  I 
have  my  doubts  of  the  old  gentleman's  story  about  the 
coming  marriage :  he  has  a  feeble  head,  and  talks 
wildly  of  his  daughter.  I  can  make  nothing  of  it.  I 
can  make  nothing  of  her  either, — except  that  she  has 
the  face  of  an  angel." 

"  Not  a  fallen  one,  I  hope."  And  I  said  it  more  for 
the  sake  of  giving  a  turn  to  a  French  phrase,  than  with 
any  seriousness.  (In  this  light  way  we  banter  with 
character !  ) 

"Parlleul"  says  the  concierge  indignantly,  "on 
ne  pent  pas  s'y  tromper :  she  is  as  pure  as  the  snow." 

I  had  now  a  full  budget  of  information  to  lay  before 
the  Abbe,  and  trusted  to  his  good  nature  to  give  me 
some  interpretation  of  this  bit  of  history  which  was 
evolving  under  his  very  wing.  Yet  the  Abbe  was  lost ; 
as  much  lost  as  I.  But  I  was  glad  to  perceive  that  I 
had  succeeded  in  kindling  in  him  a  little  interest  in  re 


THE  PETIT  AOLTLIER.  129 

gard  to  his  neighbor;  and  the  next  morning,  as  wf 
strolled  through  the  corridor,  I  think  he  looked  up  at 
the  window,  where  the  yellow  placard  was  hanging, 
with  as  much  curiosity  as  ever  I  had  done. 

A  few  days  after,  I  was  compelled  to  leave  sudden 
ly  for  the  South  ;  but  I  counselled  the  good  Abbu  to  be 
constant  at  my  old  watch,  and  to  have  a  story  to  tell 
me  on  my  return. 


n. 


TEN  months  passed  before  I  came  to  Paris  again  • 
and  it  was  not  until  three  days  after  my  return, 
that  I  found  my  way  to  the  familiar  old  corridor  that 
led  to  the  Abbe's  room,  and  caught  myself  scanning  once 
more  the  aspect  of  the  dingy  court.  The  yellow  placard 
was  gone  ;  the  little  window  was,  if  possible,  still  more 
dilapidated,  and  an  adventurous  spider  had  hung  his 
filmy  web  across  all  the  broken  panes.  The  Abbe  was 
in  his  soutane,  and  had  just  returned  from  attendance 
upon  the  funeral  service  at  the  grave  of  a  friend.  A 
few  stout  gentlemen  from  the  provinces  were  present 
in  the  Abbe's  rooms,  who  were  near  relatives  of  the 
dead  man  ;  and  though  the  good  old  priest's  look  was  all 
it  should  have  been,  I  cannot  say  as  much  for  the  buxom 
family  mourners  ;  grief  never  appears  to  me  to  mate  well 
6* 


130  SEVEb   STORIES. 

with  too  mibjh  stoutness :  its  sharp  edge  cannot  reveal 
itself,  with  any  cutting  appeal,  in  a  rubicund  visage, 
and  a  rotund  figure.  I  fear  that  I  do  a  great  many 
heavy  people  injustice  ;  for  there  are  brave,  good  b  earl  a 
bid  under  great  weight  of  flesh  ;  yet  I  think  the  reflec 
tion  finds  justification  in  a  certain  poetic  law  of  propri 
eties,  and  a  fat  undertaker  or  a  fat  hearse-man  would 
be  a  very  odious  thing. 

When  I  left  the  Abbe's  rooms,  I  walked  down  tho 
street,  thinking  I  would  call  upon  my  old  friend  the 
concierge  of  the  third  door  below,  and  inquire  after 
Monsieur  Verier  :  but  I  had  no  sooner  reached  the  open 
court,  than  I  turned  at  once  upon  my  heel,  and  strolled 
away. 

I  was  fairly  afraid  to  inquire  ;  I  would  toy  with  my 
little  romance  a  while  longer ;  perhaps,  on  the  very 
afternoon  I  might  meet  the  old  gentleman  rejuvenated, 
or  sharing  the  carriage  of  the  charming  St.  Agnes  upon 
the  Boulevards.  At  farthest,  I  knew  that  to-mor 
row  the  Abbe  would  have  something  to  tell  me  of  his 
life. 

And  this  proved  true.  We  dined  together  next 
day  at  Vefour's  in  the  Palais  Royal — a  quiet  dinner,  in 
a  little  cabinet  above  stairs. 

The  soup  was  gone,  and  an  appetizing  dish  of  eper- 
lans  was  before  us — the  Abbe  in  his  old  fashioned  way 
had  murmured — "  votre  sante  " — over  a  delectable  glass 


THE  PETIT  SOULIER.  131 

of  Chambertin, — before  I  ventured  to  ask  one  word 
about  Monsieur  Verier. 

4t  Ah,  mon  cher"  said  the  Abbe,  at  the  same  time 
laying  down  his  fork — "  he  is  dead ! " 

"  And  mademoiselle  f" 

"  Attendez"  said  the  Abbe,  "  and  you  shall  hear  it 
all." 

I  refilled  the  glasses  ;  and  as  we  went  on  leisurely 
with  the  dinner,  he  leisurely  went  on  with  his  narra 
tive. 

"  You  will  remember,  mon  ami,  having  described 
to  me  the  person  of  the  tall  gentleman  who  was  my 
neighbor.  The  description  was  a  good  one,  for  I  rec 
ognized  him  the  moment  I  saw  him. 

"  It  was  a  week  or  more  after  you  had  left  for  the 
3outh,  and  I  had  half  forgotten — excuse  me,  mon  en 
fant, — the  curiosity  you  had  felt  about  the  little  foot 
print  in  the  court,  when  I  happened  to  be  a  half  hour 
later  than  usual  in  returning  from  morning  mass,  and 
as  I  passed  the  hotel  of  which  you  had  spoken,  I  saw 
coming  out,  a  gentleman  wrapped  in  a  military  cloak, 
and  with  an  air  so  unlike  that  of  most  lodgers  of  the 
quarter,  that  I  knew  him  in  a  moment  for  your  friend 
Monsieur  Verier." 

"The  very  same,"  said  I. 

"  Indeed,"  continued  the  Abbe,  "  I  was  so  struck 
with  his  appearance — added  to  your  interest  in  him— 


132  SEVEN  STORIES. 

(here  the  Abbe  bowed  and  sipped  his  wine)  that  I  de 
termined  to  follow  him  a  short  way  down  the  street. 
We  kept  through  the  Eue  de  Seine,  and  passing  undei 
the  colonnade  of  the  Institute,  crossed  the  Pont  de  Fcr, 
continued  along  the  Quay,  as  far  as  the  gates  of  the 
garden,  crossed  the  garden  into  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  and 
though  I  thought  he  would  have  stopped  at  some  of  the 
cafes  in  the  neighborhood,  he  did  not,  but  kept  steadily 
on,  nor  did  I  give  up  pursuit,  until  he  had  taken  his 
place  in  one  of  the  omnibuses  which  pass  the  head  of 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix. 

"  A  week  after,  happening  to  see  him  again,  as  I 
came  from  Martin's  under  the  Ode  on,  I  followed  him  a 
second  time.  At  the  head  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  I 
took  a  place  in  the  same  omnibus.  He  left  the  stage 
opposite  the  Rue  de  Lancry.  I  stopped  a  short  dis 
tance  above,  and  stepping  back,  soon  came  up  with  the 
poor  gentleman  picking  his  feeble  way  along  the  dirty 
trottoir. 

"  You  remember,  my  friend,  wandering  with  me 
in  the  Rue  de  Lancry ;  you  remember  that  it  is  crook- 
ed  and  long.  The  poor  gentleman  found  it  so ;  and 
before  he  had  reached  the  end,  I  saw  that  he  was 
taking  breath,  and  such  rest  as  he  might,  upon  the 
ledge  of  a  baker's  window.  Oddly  enough,  too, 
whether  from  over  fatigue  or  carelessness,  the  old  gen 
tleman  had  the  misfortune  to  break  one  of  the  baker's 


THE  PETIT  SOULIER.  135 

windows.  I  could  see  him  from  a  distance,  nervously 
rummaging  his  pockets,  and  it  seemed  vainly ;  for 
when  I  had  come  up,  the  tradesman  was  insisting  that 
the  card  which  the  old  gentleman  offered  with  a  courtly 
air,  was  a  poor  equivalent  for  his  broken  glass." 

"  And  you  paid  it,"  said  I,  knowing  the  Abbe's 
generous  way. 

"Une  bagatelle;  a  matter  of  a  franc  or  two;  but 
it  touched  the  old  gentleman,  and  he  gave  me  his  ad 
dress,  at  the  same  time  asking  mine." 

"  Bravo  !"  said  I,  and  filled  the  Abb^s  glass. 

"  I  remarked  that  we  were  comparatively  near  neigh 
bors,  and  offered  him  rny  assistance.  I  should  observe 
that  I  was  wearing  my  soutane  upon  that  day :  and 
this,  1  think,  as  much  as  my  loan  of  the  franc,  made 
lum  accept  the  offer.  He  was  going,  he  said,  to  the 
llopital  St.  Louis,  to  visit  a  sick  friend :  I  told  him  I 
was  going  the  same  way ;  and  we  walked  together  to 
the  gates.  The  poor  gentleman  seemed  unwilling  or 
unable  to  talk  very  freely ;  and  pulling  a  slip  of  paper 
from  his  pocket  to  show  the  concierge,  he  passed  in.  I 
attended  him  as  far  as  the  middle  hall  in  the  court,  when 
he  kindly  thanked  me  again,  and  turned  into  one  of  the 
male  wards. 

"  I  took  occasion  presently  to  look  in,  and  saw  my 
companion  half  way  down  the  ward,  at  the  bedside  of  a 
feeble-looking  patient  of  perhaps  seven  or  eight  and 


184  SEVEN  STORIES. 

twenty.  There  seemed  a  degree  of  familiarity  between 
them  which  showed  long  acquaintance,  and  I  thought, 
common  interest. 

"  I  noticed,  too,  that  the  attendants  treated  the  old 
gentleman  with  marked  respect ;  this  was  owing,  how 
ever,  I  suspect,  to  the  stranger's  manner, — for  not  one 
of  them  could  tell  me  anything  of  him.  I  left  him  in 
the  hospital,  more  puzzled  than  ever  as  to  who  could  be 
the  mysterious  occupants  of  your  little  chamber. 

"  The  next  day  two  francs  in  an  envelope,  with  the 
card  of  M.  Verier  were  left  at  the  concierge rie.  As  for 
the  daughter — if  he  had  one — I  began  to  count  her  a 
myth " 

"  You  saw  her  at  last,  then,"  said  I. 

"  Attendez !  One  evening  at  dusk,  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  old  gentleman  entering  his  court  with  a 
slight  figure  of  a  woman  clinging  to  his  arm." 

— "  And  the  foot?" 

"  Ah,  mon  enfant,  it  was  too  dark  to  see." 

"  And  did  you  never  see  her  again  ?" 

"Attendez  (the  Abbe  sipped  his  wine).  For  a 
month,  I  saw  neither  Monsieur  nor  Mademoiselle  :  I 
passed  the  court  early  and  late :  I  even  went  as  far 
as  the  St.  Louis ;  but  the  sick  man  had  left.  The 
whole  matter  had  nearly  dropped  from  my  mind,  when 
one  night — it  was  very  late — the  little  bell  at  the 
wicket  rung  and  my  concierge  came  in  to  say,  that  a 


THE  PETIT  SOULIER.  135 

sick  gentleman  two  doors  below  (and  he  gave  in  hia 
card)  begged  a  visit  from  the  Abbe.  It  was  Monsieur 
Verier.  I  put  on  my  soutane  and  hurried  over ;  the 
wife  of  the  concierge  showed  me  up,  I  know  not  how 
many  flights  of  stairs  ;  at  the  door,  she  said  only,  '  The 
poor  man  will  die,  I  think :  he  will  see  no  physician  ; 
only  Monsieur  I'Abbe.'  Then  she  opened  upon  a 
miserable  chamber,  scantily  furnished,  and  the  faded 
yellow  placard  your  eye  had  detected  served  as  cur 
tain." 

I  filled  the  Abbe's  glass  and  my  own. 

"  Monsieur  Verier  lay  stretched  on  the  couch  before 
me,  breathing  with  some  difficulty,  but  giving  me  a  ges 
ture  of  recognition  and  of  welcome.  To  the  woman 
who  had  followed  me  in,  he  beckoned — to  leave :  but 
in  an  instant  again — '  stay  ! '  He  motioned  to  have  his 
watch  brought  him  (a  richly  jewelled  one  I  observed), 
consulted  it  a  moment :  c  My  daughter  should  be  here 
at  ten/  he  said,  addressing  the  woman  who  still  waited. 
I  she  come  before,  keep  her  a  moment  below ;  apres-— 
qu'elle  monte.'  And  the  woman  went  below.  4  We  have 
ten  minutes  to  ourselves,'  said  the  sick  man  ;  i  you  have 
a  kind  heart.  There  is  no  one  I  have  to  care  for  but 
Marie :  I  think  she  will  marry  one  who  will  treat  her 
kindly.  I  think  I  have  arranged  that.  All  I  can  give 
her  is  in  the  box  yonder/  and  he  pointed  to  a  travelling 
case  upon  the  table.  '  It  is  very  little.  Should  she  not 


13C  SEVEN  STORIES. 

marry,  I  hope  she  may  become  religieuse  Vous  en 
tendez  f ' 

"  *  Parfaitement,  monsieur.' 

"  '  Only  one  thing  more/  said  he  ;  '  have  the  good 
ness  to  give  me  the  portfolio  yonder.' 

He  took  from  it  a  sheet  half  written  over,  folded  it 
narrowly,  placed  it  in  an  envelope  which  was  already 
addressed,  and  begged  me  to  seal  it.  I  did  so.  He 
placed  the  letter,  as  well  as  his  trembling  fingers  would 
allow,  in  a  second  envelope,  and  returned  it  to  me. 
'  Keep  this,'  said  he  ;  c  if  ever, — and  may  God  forbid 
it — if  ever  you  should  know  that  my  child  is  suffering 
from  want,  send  this  letter  to  its  address,  and  she  will 
have  money  ;  Oui,  mon  Dieu — money — that  is  all ! ' 

And  the  old  gentleman  said  this  in  a  fearful  state 
of  agitation  ;  there  was  a  step  on  the  stair,  and  he 
seized  my  arm.  '  Monsieur  PAbbe — to  you  only  I  say 
this — that  letter  is  addressed  to  my  poor  child's  mother  ! 
She  has  never  known  her.  I  pray  God  she  never  may. 
Entendez  vous  f ' — he  fairly  hissed  this  in  my  ear. 

"-The  door  opened,  and  that  little  figure  I  had  seen 
one  day  in  the  court  sprang  in.  '  Mon  pere  I '  and  with 
that  cry,  she  was  on  her  knees  beside  the  old  gentle 
man's  cot.  Ah,  mon  ami,  how  his  old  hands  toyed 
with  those  locks,  and  wandered  nervously  over  that 
dear  head !  We  who  are  priests  meet  such  scenes 
often,  but  they  never  grow  old ;  nr  thing  is  so  young  as 
sickness  and  death." 


THE  PETIT  SOULIER.  137 

For  ten  minutes  past,  I  do  not  think  we  had  touch 
ed  the  wine ;  nor  did  we  now.  We  waited  for  the 
dishes  to  be  removed.  A  French  attendant  sees  by 
instinct  when  his  presence  is  a  burden,  and  in  a  moment 
more  he  was  gone. 

"  Eh,  lien  f  Monsieur  VAbU  !  " 

"  Ah,  mon  ami,  the  concierge  was  right  when  he  told 
you  it  was  the  face  of  St.  Agnes. 

"  '  Little  one, — cheriej  said  the  old  gentleman  feebly, 
4  this  good  Abbe  has  been  kind  to  me,  and  will  be  kind 
to  you.'  I  think  I  looked  kindly  at  the  poor  girl." 

"  I  know  you  did,"  said  I. 

" '  I  shall  be  gone  soon/  says  the  old  gentleman. 
And  the  poor  girl  gathered  up  his  palsied  hands  into 
hers,  as  if  those  little  fingers  could  keep  him.  '  You 
will  want  a  friend,'  said  he  ;  and  she  answered  only  by 
a  sob. 

'"I  have  seen  Re  my,'  said  the  old  gentleman  ad 
dressing  her  (who  seemed  startled  by  the  name,  even 
in  the  midst  of  her  grief)  ; — '  he  has  suffered  like  us ;  he 
has  been  ill  too — very  ill ;  I  think  you  may  trust  him 
now,  Marie  ;  he  has  promised  to  be  kind.'  There  was  a 
pause.  He  was  taking  breath.  '  Will  you  trust  him, 
my  child  ?' 

"  '  Dear  papa,  I  will  do  what  you  wish/ 

"  '  Thank  you  Marie,'  said  he ;  and  with  that  he 
tried  to  convey  one  of  the  white  hands  to  his  lips.  But 


138  SEVEN  STORIES. 

it  was  too  much  for  him.  He  motioned  to  have  hei 
bring  him  a  packet  that  lay  on  the  table.  I  saw  that 
he  would  say  very  little  more  in  this  world.  She  gave  it 
him.  There  seemed  to  be  a  few  old  trinkets  in  it,  and 
he  fingered  them  blindly,  with  his  eyes  half  closed.  '  A 
light,  Marie,'  said  he.  The  poor  girl  looked  about  the 
wretched  chamber  for  another  candle:  a  hundred  would 
not  have  lighted  it  now.  I  told  her  as  much  with  only 
a  warning  finger.  Then  she  fell  upon  his  bosom,  with 
a  great  burst  of  sobs.  '  God  keep  you  !'  said  he. 

"  Ah,  mon  enfant,  how  she  lifted  those  great  eyes 
again  and  looked  at  him,  and  looked  at  me,  and  scream 
ed — il  est  mortr — I  can't  forget." 

The  gargon  had  served  the  coffee. 

"  He  was  buried,"  resumed  the  Abbe,  "just  within 
the  gates  of  the  cemetery  Mont  Parnasse,  a  little  to  the 
right  of  the  carriage  way  as  you  enter.  At  the  head  of 
the  grave  there  is  a  small  marble  tablet,  very  plain,  in* 
scribed  simply  lAmonpere;  1845.'  I  was  at  the  burial, 
but  there  were  very  few  to  mourn." 

"  And  the  daughter  ?"  said  I. 

"  My  friend,  you  are  impatient :  I  went  to  offer  my 
services  after  the  death ;  a  little  chapelle  ardente  was 
arranged  in  the  court-entrance.  I  begged  mademoiselle 
to  command  me  ;  but  she  pointed  to  a  friend — he  was 
the  patient  I  had  seen  in  the  hospital — who  had  kindly 
relieved  her  of  all  care.  I  could  not  doubt  that  he  was 


THE  PETIT  SOULIER.  139 

the  person  to  whom  the  father  had  commended  her,  and 
that  the  poor  girl's  future  was  secure.  Indeed,  under  all 
her  grief  I  thought  I  perceived  an  exhilaration  of  spirits 
and  a  buoyant  gratitude  to  the  friend — who  tendered  a 
hundred  little  delicate  attentions — which  promised  hope 
fully." 

"  It  was  Remy,  I  suppose." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  the  Abbe  ;  "  nor  could  any 
one  at  the  Hotel  tell  me  anything  of  him.  I  gave  her 
my  address,  begging  her  in  any  trouble  to  find  me  :  she 
thanked  me  with  a  pressure  of  the  little  hand,  that  you, 
mon  enfant,  would  have  been  glad  to  feel." 

"  And  when  did  you  see  her  again  ?  " 

"  Not  for  months,"  said  the  Abbe  ;  and  lie  sipped  at 
his  demi-tasse. 

"  Shall  I  go  on,  mon  cher  f     It  is  a  sad  story." 

I  nodded  affirmatively,  and  took  a  nut  or  two  from 
the  dish  before  us. 

"  I  called  at  the  hotel  where  Monsieur  Verier  had 
died ;  no  one  there  could  tell  me  where  Mademoiselle 
had  gone,  or  where  she  now  lived.  I  went  to  the  Hos 
pital,  and  made  special  inquiries  after  Monsieur  Remy  : 
no  such  name  had  been  entered  on  the  books  for  three 
years  past.  I  sometimes  threw  a  glance  up  at  the  little 
window  in  the  court ;  it  was  bare  and  desolate  as  you 
see  it  now.  Once  I  went  to  the  grave  of  the  old  gen 
tleman  :  it  was  after  the  tablet  had  been  raised :  a  rose 


MO  SEVEN  STORIES. 

tree  had  been  planted  near  by,  and  promised  a  full 
bloom.  I  gave  up  all  hopes  of  seeing  the  beautiftu 
Marie  again."  And  the  Abbe  paused  artfully,  as  if  he 
had  done. 

I  urged  upon  him  a  little  glass  of  Chartreuse. 


"  Nothing." 


— "  You  remember,  mon  ami,  the  pretty  housea 
along  the  Rue  de  Paris,  at  Passy,  with  the  linden  trees 
in  front  of  them,  and  the  clean  doorsteps  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,  mon  cher  Abbe." 

1 '  It  is  not  two  months  since  I  was  passing  by  them 
one  autumn  afternoon,  and  saw  at  a  window  half  opened, 
the  same  sad  face  which  I  had  last  seen  in  the  chapelle 
ardente  of  the  Rue  de  Seine.  I  went  in,  my  friend: 
I  made  myself  known  as  the  attendant  at  her  father's 
death  :  she  recalled  me  at  this  mention,  and  shook  my 
hand  gratefully  :  ah — the  soft,  white  hand  ! " 

The  Abbe  finished  his  coffee,  and  moved  a  pace 
back  from  the  table. 

u  There  were  luxuries  about  her — bois  de  rose — 
bijouterie ;  but  she  was  dressed  very  simply — in  full 
Mack  still ;  it  became  her  charmingly  :  her  hair  twisted 
back  and  fastened  in  one  great  coil ;  an  embroidered 
kerchief  tied  carelessly  about  her  neck — for  the  air  was 
fresh — it  had  in  its  fastening  a  bit  of  rose  geranium  and 
a  half-opened  white  rose  bud:  amid  all  the  luxury  this 
was  the  only  ornament  she  wore. 


THE  PETIT  SOULIER.  141 

"  I  told  her  how  I  had  made  numerous  inquiries 
for  her.  She  smiled  her  thanks  ;  she  was  toying  ner 
vously  with  a  little  crystal  flacon  upon  the  table  beside 
her. 

"  I  told  her  how  I  had  ventured  to  inquire  too,  for 
the  friend,  Monsieur  Remy,  of  whom  her  father  had 
spoken :  at  this,  she  put  both  hands  to  her  face  and 
burst  into  tears. 

"  '  I  begged  pardon  ;  I  feared  she  had  not  found  her 
friend?' 

" '  Mon  DieuJ  said  she,  looking  at  me  with  a  wild 
earnestness,  '  il  est — c'  etait  mon  mari ! ' 

"  '  Was  it  possible  !     He  is  dead  too,  then?' 

ut  Ah,  no,  no,  Monsieur — worse:  mon  Dieu,  quel 
manage ! '  and  again  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  What  could  I  say,  mon  enfant  f  The  friend  had 
betrayed  her.  They  told  me  as  much  at  Passy.  I  am 
afraid  thai  I  showed  too  little  delicacy,  but  I  was  anx 
ious  to  know  if  she  had  any  apprehension  of  approach 
ing  want. 

"  She  saw  rny  drift  in  an  instant,  mon  ami — (the  Ab 
be's  voice  fell).  I  thought  she  clutched  the  little  flacon 
with  a  dreary  smile :  but  she  lighted  from  it  into  pas 
sion  ; — '  Monsieur  I*  Abbe,9  said  she  rising,  4  you  are 
good ! ' — and  from  an  open  drawer  she  clutched  a  hand 
ful  of  napoleons. — <  Voyez  done  qa,  Monsieur  l'Abbe—je 
suis  riche ! '  and  with  a  passionate  gesture,  she  dashed 


142  SEVEN  STORIES. 

them  all  abroad  upon  the  floor.  Then  she  muttered 
'  Pardonnez  moi ! '  and  sunk  into  her  chair  again — so  sad 
— so  beautiful "  The  Abbe  stopped  abruptly. 

I  pretended  to  be  busy  with  a  nut :  but  it  tried  my 
eyes.  The  Abbe  recovered  presently  ; — "  She  talked 
with  a  strange  smile  of  her  father:  she  sometimes 
visited  his  grave.  I  saw  her  fingers  were  seeking  the 
rose,  which  when  she  had  found  she  kissed  passionately, 
then  crushed  it,  and  cast  it  from  her — '  Oh,  God,  what 
should  I  do  now  with  flowers  ? ' 

"  I  never  saw  her  again. 

"  She  went  to  her  father's  grave but  not  to  pick 

roses. 

"  She  is  there  now ;"  said  the  Abbe — and  in  a  tone 
in  which  he  might  have  ended  a  sermon,  if  he  had  been 
preaching. 

There  was  a  long  pause  after  this. 

At  length  I  asked  him  if  he  knew  anything  of  Remy. 

"  You  may  see  him  any  day,  said  the  Abbe,  up  the 
Champs  Elysees,  driving  a  tilbury — a  charming  equi 
page.  But  there  is  a  time  coming,  mon  ami — it  is  com- 
ing,  when  he  will  go  where  God  judges,  and  not  man." 

I  had  never  seen  the  Abbe  so  solemn. 

Our  dinner  was  ended.  The  Abbe  and  myself  took 
a  carriage  to  cross  over  to  Mont  Parnasse.  Within 
the  gateway,  and  a  short  distance  to  the  right  of  the 
main  drive,  were  two  tablets :  one  was  older  than  the 


THE  PETIT  SOULIER.  143 

other  by  four  months.  The  later  one  was  quite  new, 
and  was  inscribed  simply  "  Marie,  1846." 

Before  I  left  Paris  I  went  down  into  the  old  corridor 
again,  of  the  Rue  de  Seine.  The  chamber  with  the  lit* 
tie  window  had  undergone  a  change.  I  saw  a  neat 
curtain  hanging  within  and  a  workman's  blouse.  I  had 
rather  have  found  it  empty. 

I  half  wished  I  had  never  seen  the  print  upon  the 
snow  of  Le  Petit  Soulier. 


FOURTH  STORY: 


THE    BRIDE    OF    THE    ICE-KING 


FOURTH  STOET: 


The  Bride  of  the  Ice-King. 

THERE  is  not  a  prettier  valley  in  Switzerland  than 
that  of  Lauterbrunnen.  Whoever  has  seen  it 
upon  a  fair  day  of  Summer,  when  the  meadows  were 
green,  the  streams  full,  and  the  sun  shining  upon  the 
crystal  glaciers  which  lie,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end 
of  the  year,  at  the  head  of  the  valley,  can  never  forget 
it.  I  do  not  think  it  can  be  more  than  a  half  mile  broad 
at  its  widest :  and  in  many  places,  I  am  sure  it  is  much 
less.  On  one  side,  the  rocks,  brown  and  jagged,  and 
tufted  with  straggling  shrubs,  rise  almost  perpendicu 
larly  ,  and  a  stream  of  water  which  comes  from  higher 
slopes,  far  out  of  sight  from  below,  leaps  over  the  edge 
of  the  precipice.  At  first,  it  is  a  solid  column  of  water  ; 
then  it  breaks  and  spreads  and  wavers  with  the  wind : 


148  SEVEN  STORIES. 

and  finally,  in  a  rich  white  veil  of  spray,  reaches  tho 
surface  of  the  meadow  of  Lauterbrunnen,  a  thousand 
feet  below.  They  call  it  the  Dust-fall. 

The  opposite  side  of  the  valley  does  not  change  so 
suddenly  into  mountain.  There  are  slopes,  green  or 
yellow,  as  the  season  may  be,  with  the  little  harvests 
which  the  mountain  people  raise ;  there  are  cliffs  with 
wide  niches  in  them,  where  you  may  see  sheep  or  kids 
cropping  the  short  herbage  which  grows  in  the  shadow 
of  the  rocks :  and  there  is  a  path  zig-zagging  up  from 
the  road  below,  I  scarce  know  how.  It  would  be  very 
tiresome,  were  it  not  for  the  views  it  gives  you  at  every 
turning.  Sometimes  from  under  a  thicket  of  trees  you 
look  sheer  down  upon  the  bridge  you  have  traversed  in 
the  bottom  of  the  valley — so  near  that  you  could  toss  your 
Alpenstock  into  the  brook.  Sometimes  the  green  of  the 
meadow,  and  the  sparkle  of  its  stream  are  wholly  shut 
out  from  sight,  and  you  look  straight  across  upon  the 
Dust^fall,  where  it  leaps  from  the  cliff  abreast  of  you, 
and  catch  sight  of  its  first  shiver,  before  it  is  yet  broken 
into  spray.  As  you  mount  still  higher  toward  the  pla 
teau  of  the  Ober-Alp,  the  pretty  valley  you  have  left 
dwindles  to  a  mountain  chasm,  over  whose  farther  edge, 
the  shimmering  Dust-fall  seems  only  a  bit  of  gauze 
swaying  in  the  wind. 

The  first  time  I  made  this  ascent  from  the  valley  of 
Lauterbrunnen,  was  many  years  since,  on  a  midsum 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  ICE-KING.  149 

mer's  afternoon.  The  mountains  were  clear  of  clouds  ; 
their  white  skirts  and  the  jagged  spurs  of  the  glaciers 
which  lie  between  the  peaks,  and  pour  down  their  clum 
sy  billows  of  ice  toward  the  head  of  the  valley,  were 
glowing  with  warm  sunlight :  warm  and  golden,  the 
sunlight  lay  upon  the  green  slopes  around  me — golden 
upon  the  farther  side  of  the  meadow  below,  where  the 
peasants  were  gathering  in  their  July  crop  of  hay,  and 
golden  upon  the  gush  and  vapor  of  the  Dust-fall.  A 
mountain  girl  from  a  near  cottage,  in  the  hope  of  a  few 
pennies,  was  singing  a  plaintive  Swiss  air,  whose  echoes 
mingled  pleasantly  with  the  tinkle  of  the  bells  the  kids 
wore,  upon  the  cliffs  above,  and  with  the  faint  murmur 
of  the  stream  trailing  below.  And  as  I  lay  down^to 
rest  under  the  shadow  of  a  broad-limbed  walnut  (how 
well  I  remember  it !)  the  song,  the  tinkling  bells,  the 
murmur  of  the  stream,  the  broad  full  flush  of  mid-after 
noon,  the  emerald  meadows  from  which  came  perfume 
of  new-mown  hay,  the  Jungfrau  warmed  to  its  very 
peak  by  the  yellow  sunshine,  that  sent  a  glory  of  golden 
beams  through  every  mountain  cleft — all  these  made  a 
scene,  an  atmosphere,  a  presence,  where  it  seemed  to 
me,  a  man  might  dream  a  life  out,  without  one  thought 
of  labor  or  of  duty. 

But  summers  end ;  and  so  does  sunshine.  Upon 
my  last  visit,  after  an  interval  of  six  years,  the  scene 
was  totally  different.  It  was  not  in  summer,  but  au- 


150  SE^EN  STORIES. 

tumn.  The  meadows  v  ere  brown.  The  walnut  trees 
upon  the  slopes  toward  the  Wengern  Alp,  were  stripped 
of  half  their  leaves,  and  through  the  bleached  company 
of  those  yet  lingering,  there  went  sighing  a  harsh  wind 
of  October.  The  clouds  hung  low,  and  dashed  fitfully 
across  the  heights.  From  hour  to  hour,  fragments  of 
the  great  glacier  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  Jungfrau, 
burst  away,  and  fell  thundering  into  the  mountain 
abysses.  There  was  no  sunlight  upon  either  valley,  or 
ice. 

It  hardly  seemed  the  same  spot  of  country  which 
had  so  caught  my  fancy,  and  so  bewildered  me  with  its 
beauty,  years  before.  And  yet  there  was  a  sublimity 
hanging  about  the  frowning  peaks,  and  the  cold  gray 
sky,  of  which  I  had  no  sense  upon  the  former  visit.  In 
that  sunny  summer  tide,  the  mountains,  the  air,  and 
even  the  lustrous  glacier  were  subdued  into  quiet  har 
mony  with  the  valley,  and  the  valley  brook  below. 
Now  the  gray  landscape  wore  a  sober  and  solemn  hue, 
that  lifted  even  the  meadow  into  grand  companionship 
with  the  mountain  and  the  glaciers ;  and  the  crash  of 
falling  icebergs  quickened  and  gave  force  to  the  impres 
sions  of  awe  which  crept  over  me  like  a  chill. 

I  began  to  understand,  for  the  first  time,  that  strange 
and  savage  reverence  which  the  peasants  feel  for  their 
mountains.  It  seemed  to  me  that  darkness  would  only 
be  needed  to  drive  away  all  rational  estimate  of  tha 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  ICE-KING.  151 

strange  sounds  which  reverberated,  and  of  the  sombre 
silence  which  brooded  among  the  cliffs.  I  entertained 
with  a  willingness  that  almost  frighted  me,  the  old  sto 
ries  of  Ice-gods  ruling,  and  thundering  through  the 
mountain  chasms.  I  strode  on  to  the  little  shelter  place 
which  lies  under,  and  opposite  the  Jungfrau,  with  the 
timid  step  of  one  encroaching  upon  the  domain  of  some 
august  and  splendid  monarch.  I  did  not  once  seek  to 
combat  the  imaginative  humors  which  lent  a  tone  and 
a  consistency  to  this  feeling. 

A  terrific  storm  burst  over  the  mountains,  shortly 
after  I  had  gained  shelter  in  the  little  chalet  of  the  Ober- 
Alp.  The  only  company  I  found  was  the  host,  and  a 
flax-haired  German  student.  The  latter  abandoned  his 
pipe  as  the  storm  increased  in  violence  and  listened 
with  me  silently,  and  I  thought  with  some  measure  of 
awe  to  the  crash  of  the  avalanches,  which  were  set 
loose  by  the  torrents  of  rain. 

"  The  Ice-king  is  angry  to-night,"  said  our  host.  I 
could  not  smile  at  the  superstition  of  the  man  ;  too  much 
of  the  same  weird  influence  had  crept  over  my  own 
mind :  there  was  a  feeling  born  of  the  mountain  pres 
ence,  which  forbade  any  smiling — a  feeling  as  if  an  Ice- 
King  might  be  really  there  to  avenge  a  slight.  Pres 
ently  there  was  a  louder  shock  than  usual,  and  the 
echoes  of  the  roar  thundered  for  several  moments 
among  the  cliffs.  The  host  went  hurriedly  to  the  door, 


1  f)  2  8E  YEN  STORIES. 

which  looked  out  toward  the  Jungfrau,  and  presently 
summoned  us  to  see,  what  he  called — the  Maid  of  the 
glacier. 

The  bald  wall  of  rock  we  could  see  looming  darkly 
through  the  tempest,  and  the  immense  caps  of  snow, 
which  lay  at  the  top.  The  host  directed  our  attention 
to  a  white  speck  half-way  up  the  face  of  the  precipice 
which  rose  slowly  in  a  wavy  line,  and  presently  disap 
peared  over  the  edge  of  the  glacier. 

"  You  saw  her?"  said  the  host  excitedly;  "you 
never  see  her,  except  after  some  terrible  avalanche." 

"  What  is  it?"  said  I. 

u  We  call  her  the  Bride  of  the  Ice-King,"  said  our 
host ;  and  he  appealed  to  the  German  student,  who,  I 
found,  had  been  frequently  in  the  Alps,  and  was  fami 
liar  with  all  the  legends.  And  when  we  were  seated 
again  around  the  fire,  which  the  host  had  replenished 
with  a  fagot  of  crackling  fire-wood,  the  German  re 
lighted  his  pipe,  and  told  us  this  story  of  the  Bride  of 
the  Ice-King.  If  it  should  appear  tame  in  the  reading, 
it  must  be  remembered  that  I  listened  to  it  first  in  a 
storm  at  midnight,  upon  the  wild  heights  of  the  Schei- 
deck. 

Many  years  ago,  (it  was  thus  his  story  began,) 
there  lived  upon  the  edge  of  the  valley  of  Lauter- 
brunnen  a  peasant,  who  had  a  beautiful  daughter,  by 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  ICE-KING.  153 

the  name  of  Clothilde.  Her  hair  was  golden,  and  flow 
ed  in  ringlets  upon  a  neck  as  white  as  the  snows  of  the 
Jungfrau.  Her  eye  was  hazel  and  bright,  but  with  a 
pensive  air,  which,  if  the  young  herdsmen  of  the  valley 
looked  on  only  once,  they  never  forgot  in  their  lives. 

The  mother  of  Clothilde,  who  had  died  when  she 
was  young,  came,  it  was  said,  from  some  land  beyond 
the  Alps  ;  none  knew  of  her  lineage  ;  and  the  people  of 
the  valley  had  learned  only  that  the  peasant,  whose  wife 
she  became,  had  found  her  lost  upon  the  mountains. 
The  peasant  was  an  honest  man,  and  mourned  for  the 
mother  of  Clothilde,  because  she  had  shared  his  labors, 
and  had  lighted  pleasantly  the  solitary  path  of  his  life. 
But  Clothilde  clung  with  a  mysterious  tenderness  to  her 
memory,  and  believed  always  that  she  would  find  her 
again — where  her  father  had  found  her — upon  the 
mountains.  It  was  in  vain  they  showed  her  the  grave 
where  her  mother  lay  buried,  in  the  village  church-yard. 

"  Ah,  no, — not  there,"  she  would  say  ;  and  her  eyes 
lifted  to  the  mountains. 

Yet  no  one  thought  Clothilde  crazed ;  not  a  maiden 
of  all  the  village  of  Lauterbrunnen  performed  better  her 
household  cares  than  the  beautiful  Clothilde.  Not  one 
could  so  swiftly  ply  the  distaff;  not  one  could  show 
such  a  store  of  white  cloth,  woven  from  the  mountain 
flax.  She  planted  flowers  by  the  door  of  her  father's 
cottage  ;  she  provided  all  his  comforts  ;  she  joined  with 
7* 


154  SEVEN  STORIES. 

the  rest  in  the  village  balls  ;  but,  unlike  all  the  maidens 
of  the  village,  she  would  accept  no  lover.  There  were' 
those  who  said  that  her  smiles  were  all  cold  smiles,  and 
that  her  heart  was  icy.  But  these  were  disappointed 
ones  ;  and  had  never  known  of  the  tears  she  shed  wher.^ 
she  thought  of  her  mother,  who  was  gone. 

The  father,  plain  peasant  that  he  was,  mourned  in 
his  heart  when  he  thought  how  Clothilde  was  the  only 
maiden  of  the  village  who  had  no  lover  ;  and  he  feared 
greatly,  as  the  years  flew  swiftly  over  him,  for  the  days 
that  were  to  come,  when  Clothilde  would  have  none  to 
watch  over  her,  and  none  to  share  her  cottage  home. 
But  the  pensive-eyed  Clothilde  put  on  gaiety  when  she 
found  this  mood  creeping  over  her  father's  thought,  and 
cheered  him  with  the  light  songs  she  had  learned  from 
the  village  girls.  Yet  her  heart  was  not  in  the  light 
songs  ;  and  she  loved  more  to  revel  in  the  wild  legends 
of  the  mountains.  Deeper  things  than  came  near  to 
the  talk  of  the  fellow-villagers,  wakened  the  fancy  of 
fhe  pensive-eyed  Clothilde.  Whether  it  came  from 
dreamy  memories  of  the  lost  mother,  or  daily  compan 
ionship  with  the  glaciers,  which  she  saw  from  her  fa 
ther's  door,  certain  it  was,  that  her  thought  went  farther 
and  wider  than  the  thoughts  of  those  around  her. 

Even  the  lessons  she  learned  from  the  humble  cure 
of  the  village,  were  all  colored  by  her  vagrant  fancy ; 
and  though  she  kneeled,  as  did  the  father  and  the  good 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  ICE-KINO-.  155 

cure,  before  the  image  at  the  altar  of  the  village  church 
she  seemed  to  see  HIM  plainer  in  the  mountains :  and 
there  was  a  sacredness  in  the  pine-woods  upon  the  slope 
of  the  hill,  and  in  the  voice  of  the  avalanches  of  spring, 
which  called  to  her  mind  a  quicker  sense  of  the  Divine 
presence  and  power,  than  the  church  chalices  or  the 
rosary. 

Now  the  father  of  Clothilde  had  large  flocks,  for  a 
village  peasant.  Fifty  of  his  kids  fed  upon  the  herbage 
which  grew  on  the  mountain  ledges  ;  and  half  a  score 
of  dun  cows  came  every  night  to  his  chalet,  from  the 
pasture-grounds  which  were  watered  by  the  spray  of 
the  Dust-fall.  Many  of  the  young  villagers  would  have 
gladly  won  Clothilde  to  some  token  of  love ;  but  ever 
her  quiet,  pale  face,  as  she  knelt  in  the  village  church, 
awed  them  to  silence  ;  and  ever  her  gentle  manner,  as 
she  clung  to  the  arm  of  the  old  herdsman,  her  father, 
made  them  vow  new  vows  to  conquer  the  village  beau 
ty.  In  times  of  danger,  or  in  times  when  sickness  came 
to  the  chalets  of  the  valley,  Clothilde  passed  hither  and 
thither  on  errands  of  mercy ;  and  when  storms  threat 
ened  those  who  watched  the  kids  upon  the  mountain 
slopes ,  she  carried  them  food  and  wine,  and  fresh  store 
of  blankets. 

So  the  years  passed ;  and  the  maidens  said  that 
Clothilde  was  losing  the  freshness  that  belonged  to  her 
voung  days ;  but  these  were  jealous  ones,  and,  like 


15G  SEVEN  STORIES. 

other  maidens  than  Swiss  maidens,  knew  not  how  tc 
forgive  her  who  bore  away  the  palm  of  goodness  and 
of  beauty.  And  the  father,  growing  always  older,  grew 
sadder  at  thought  of  the  loneliness  which  would  soon 
belong  to  his  daughter  Clothilde.  "  Who,"  said  the 
old  man,  "will  take  care  of  the  flocks,  my  daughter? 
who  will  look  after  the  dun  cows  ?  who  will  bring  the 
winter's  store  of  fir-wood  from  the  mountains  ?  " 

Now,  Clothilde  could  answer  for  these  things ;  for 
even  the  cure  of  the  village  would  not  see  the  pretty  and 
the  pious  Clothilde  left  destitute.  But  it  pained  her 
heart  to  witness  the  care  that  lay  upon  her  father's 
thought,  and  she  was  willing  to  bestow  quiet  upon  his 
parting  years.  Therefore,  on  a  day  when  she  came 
back  with  the  old  herdsman  from  a  village- wedding,  she 
told  him  that  she,  too,  if  he  wished,  would  become  a 
bride. 

"  And  whom  will  you  marry,  Clothilde  ?  "  said  the 
old  man. 

"  Whom  you  choose,"  said  Clothilde  ;  but  she  added, 
t;  he  must  be  good,  else  how  can  I  be  good?  And  he 
must  be  brave,  for  I  love  the  mountains." 

So  the  father  and  the  village  cure  consulted  togeth 
er,  while  Clothilde  sang  as  before  at  her  household 
cares ;  and  lingered,  as  was  her  wont  at  evening,  by 
the  chapel  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Snow,  in  view  of  the 
glaciers  which  rose  in  the  front  of  the  valley.  But  the 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  ICE-KING.  157 

father  and  the  cure  could  decide  upon  no  one  who  was 
wholly  worthy  to  be  the  bridegroom  of  Clothilde.  The 
people  of  the  valley  were  honest,  and  not  a  young  vil 
lager  of  them  all  but  would  have  made  for  her  a  watch 
ful  husband,  and  cared  well  for  the  ilocks  which  be 
longed  to  her  father's  fold. 

In  that  day,  as  now,  village  fetes  were  held  in  every 
time  of  spring,  at  which  the  young  mountaineers  con 
tended  in  wrestling,  and  in  the  cast  of  heavy  boulders, 
and  in  other  mountain  sports  which  tried  their  manli 
ness,  and  which  called  down  the  plaudits  of  the  village 
dames.  The  spring  and  the  spring  fetes  were  now  ap 
proaching,  and  it  was  agreed  between  the  father  and 
the  cur6,  that  where  all  were  so  brave  and  honest,  the 
victor  in  the  village  games  should  receive,  for  reward, 
the  hand  of  Clothilde. 

The  villagers  were  all  eager  for  the  day  which  was 
to  decide  the  fortune  of  their  valley  heiress.  Clothilde 
herself  wore  no  cloud  upon  her  brow ;  but  ever,  with 
the  same  serene  look,  she  busied  her  hands  with  her 
old  house-cares,  and  sang  the  songs  which  cheered  her 
old  father's  heart.  The  youth  of  the  village — they 
were  mostly  the  weaker  ones — eyed  her  askance,  and 
said,  "  She  can  have  no  heart  worth  the  winning,  who 
is  won  only  by  a  stout  arm."  And  others  said,  "She 
'  is  icy  cold,  and  can  have  no  heart  at  all." 

But  the  good  cur6  said,  "Nay  ;"  and  many  a  one 


158  SEVEN-  STORIES. 

from  sick-beds  called  down  blessings  on  her.  There 
were  mothers,  too,  of  the  village — thinking  perhaps,  as 
mothers  will,  of  the  fifty  kids  and  of  the  half-score  of 
dun  cows  which  would  make  her  dowry — who  said  with 
a  wise  shake  of  the  head — "  She  who  is  so  good  a  daugh 
ter  will  make  also  a  good  wife." 

Among  those  who  would  gladly,  long  ago,  have 
sought  Clothilde  in  marriage,  was  a  young  villager  of 
Lauterbrunnen,  whose  name  was  Conrad  Friedlaud. 
He  was  hunter  as  well  as  herdsman,  and  he  knew  the 
haunts  of  the  chamois  upon  the  upper  heights  as  well 
as  he  knew  the  pasturage-ground  where  fed  the  kids 
which  belonged  to  the  father  of  Clothilde.  He  had  nut- 
brown  hair,  and  dark  blue  eyes ;  and  there  was  not  a 
maiden  in  the  valley,  save  only  the  pensive  Clothilde, 
but  watched  admiringly  the  proud  step  of  the  hunter 
Friedland. 

Many  a  time  her  father  had  spoken  of  the  daring 
deeds  of  Conrad,  and  had  told  to  Clothilde,  with  an  old 
man's  ardor,  the  tale  of  the  wild  mountain-hunts  which 
Conrad  could  reckon  up — and  how,  once  upon  a  time, 
when  a  child  was  lost,  they  had  lowered  the  young 
huntsman  with  ropes  into  the  deep  crevasses  of  the  gla 
cier  ;  and  how,  in  the  depths  of  the  icy  cavern,  he  had 
bound  the  young  child  to  his  shoulder,  and  been  dragged, 
bruised  and  half-dead,  to  the  light  again.  To  all  this 
Clothilde  had  listened  with  a  sparkle  in  her  eye ;  yst 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  1CE-KING.  159 

she  felt  not  her  heart  warming  toward  Conrad,  as  the 
heart  of  a  maiden  should  warm  toward  an  accepted 
lover. 

Many  and  many  a  time  Conrad  had  gazed  on  Clo- 
thilde  as  she  kneeled  in  the  village  church.  Many  and 
many  a  time  he  had  watched  her  crimson  kirtle,  as  she 
disappeared  among  the  walnut-trees  that  grew  by  her 
father's  door.  Many  and  many  a  time  he  had  looked 
longingly  upon  the  ten  dun  cows  which  made  up  her  fa 
ther's  flock,and  upon  the  green  pasturage-ground,  where 
his  kids  counted  by  fifty.  Brave  enough  he  was  to 
climb  the  crags,  even  when  the  ice  was  smooth  on  the 
narrow  foot-way,  and  a  slip  would  hurl  him  to  destruc 
tion  ;  he  had  no  fear  of  the  crevasses  which  gape  fright 
fully  on  the  paths  that  lead  over  the  glaciers ;  he  did 
not  shudder  at  the  thunders  which  the  avalanches  sent 
howling  among  the  heights  around  him ;  and  yet  Con 
rad  had  never  dared  to  approach,  as  a  lover  might  ap 
proach,  the  pensive-eyed  Clothilde. 

With  other  maidens  of  the  village  he  danced  and 
sang,  even  as  the  other  young  herdsmen,  who  were  his 
mates  in  the  village  games,  danced  and  sang.  Once  or 
twice,  indeed,  he  had  borne  a  gift — a  hunter's  gift  of 
tender  chamois-flesh — to  the  old  man,  her  father.  And 
Clothilde,  with  her  own  low  voice,  had  said,  "  My  fa 
ther  thanks  you,  Conrad." 

And  the  brave  hunter,  in  her  presence,  was  like  a 


1  GO  8E  YEN  STORIES. 

sparrow  within  the  swoop  of  a  falcon  J  If  she  sang,  he 
listened — as  though  he  dreamed  that  leaves  were  flut« 
tering,  and  birds  were  singing  over  him.  If  she  wag 
silent,  he  gazed  on  her — as  lie  had  gazed  on  cool  moun 
tain-pools  where  the  sun  smote  fiercely.  The  idle  rail 
lery  of  the  village  he  could  not  talk  to  her  ;  of  love  she 
would  not  listen ;  of  things  higher,  with  his  peasant's 
voice  and  mind,  he  knew  not  how  to  talk.  And  the 
mother  of  Conrad  Friedland,  a  lone  widow,  living  only 
in  the  love  of  her  son,  upon  the  first  lift  of  the  hills, 
chid  him  for  his  silence,  and  said,  "lie  who  has  no 
tongue  to  tell  of  love,  can  have  no  heart  to  win  it !  " 

Yet  Conrad,  for  very  lack  of  speech,  felt  his  slum 
brous  passion  grow  strong.  The  mountain  springs 
which  are  locked  longest  with  ice,  run  fiercest  in  sum 
mer.  And  Conrad  rejoiced  in  the  trial  that  was  to 
come,  where  he  could  speak  his  love  in  his  own  moun 
tain  way,  and  conquer  the  heart  of  Clothilde  with  his 
good  right  arm. 

Howbeit,  there  was  many  another  herdsman  of  the 
valley  who  prepared  himself  joyously  for  a  strife,  where 
the  winner  should  receive  the  fifty  kids  and  the  ten  dun 
cows,  and  the  hand  of  the  beautiful  Clothilde.  Many  a 
mother,  whose  eye  had  rested  lovingly  on  these,  one 
and  all,  bade  their  sons  "  Be  ready  !  "  Clothilde  alone 
seemed  careless  of  those,  who  on  the  festal  day,  were 
to  become  her  champions  ;  and  ever  she  passed  undis- 


THE  SKIVE  OF  THE  ICE-KING.  1G1 

turbed  through  her  daily  round  of  cares,  kneeling  in  the 
village  church,  singing  the  songs  that  gladdened  her 
father's  heart,  and  lingering  at  the  sunset  hour,  by  the 
chapel  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Snow,  whence  she  saw  tho 
glaciers  and  the  mountain-tops  glowing  with  the  rid), 
red  light  from  the  west. 

Upon  the  night  before  the  day  of  the  village  &te,  it 
happened  that  she  met  the  brave  young  hunter,  Conrad, 
returning  from  the  hills,  with  a  chamois  upon  his  shoul 
der.  He  saluted  her,  as  was  his  wont,  and  would  have 
followed  at  respectful  distance ;  but  Clothilde  beckoned 
his  approach. 

"  Conrad,"  said  she,  "  you  will  contend  with  the 
others  at  the  fete  to-morrow?" 

"  I  will  be  there,"  said  Conrad  ;  "  and — please  the 
blessed  Virgin — I  will  win  such  prize  as  was  never  won 
before." 

"  Conrad  Friedland,  I  know  that  you  are  brave,  and 
that  you  are  strong.  Will  you  not  be  generous  also  ? 
Swear  to  me  that  if  you  are  the  winner  in  to-morrow's 
sports,  you  wrill  not  claim  the  reward  which  my  father 
has  promised  to  the  bravest,  for  a  year  and  a  day ." 

"  You  ask  what  is  hard,"  said  Conrad.  "  When 
the  chamois  is  near,  I  draw  my  bow ;  and  when  my  ar 
row  is  on  the  string,  how  can  I  stay  the  shaft  ?  " 

"  It  is  well  for  your  mountain  prizes,  Conrad  ;  but 
bethink  you  the  heart  of  a  virgin  is  to  be  won  like  a 
gazelle  of  the  mountains  ?  " 


1 02  SEVEN  STORIES. 

"  Clothilde  will  deny  rae,  then ! "  said  Conrad  re 
proachfully. 

"  Until  a  year  and  a  day  are  passed,  I  must  deny,' 
said  the  maiden.  "  But  when  the  snows  of  another 
spring  are  melted,  and  the  fete  has  returned  again,  if 
you,  Conrad  Friedland,  are  of  the  same  heart  and  will, 
I  promise  to  be  yours." 

And  Conrad  touched  his  lips  to  the  hand  she  lent 
him,  and  swore,  "  by  Our  Lady  of  the  Snow,"  that,  for 
a  year  and  a  day,  he  would  make  no  claim  to  the  hand 
of  Clothilde,  though  he  were  twice  the  winner. 

The  morning  was  beautiful  which  ushered  in  the 
day  of  the  fetes.  The  maidens  of  the  village  were  ar 
rayed  in  their  gayest  dresses,  and  the  young  herdsmen 
of  the  valley  had  put  on  their  choicest  finery.  The 
sports  were  held  upon  a  soft  bit  of  meadow-land  at  the 
foot  of  the  great  glacier  which  rises  in  the  front  of 
Lauterbrunnen.  A  barrier  of  earth  and  rocks,  clothed 
with  fir-trees,  separated  the  green  meadow  from  the 
crystal  mountain  which  gleamed  above.  All  the  people 
of  the  village  were  assembled ;  and  many  a  young 
hunter  or  herdsman  from  the  plains  of  Interlacken,  or 
from  the  borders  of  the  Brienzer-Zee,  or  from  the  far 
ther  vale  of  Grindelwald.  But  Conrad  had  no  fear  of 
these  ;  already,  on  many  a  day  of  fete,  he  had  measured 
forces  with  them,  and  had  borne  off  the  prizes,  whether 
in  wrestling  or  in  the  cast  of  the  boulders. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  ICE-KIN  Q.  163 

This  day  he  had  given  great  care  to  his  dress ;  a 
jerkin  of  neatly  tanned  chamois-leather  set  off  his  mus 
cular  figure,  and  it  was  dressed  upon  the  throat  and 
upon  the  front  with  those  rare  furs  of  the  mountains, 
which  betokened  his  huntsman's  craft.  Many  a  village 
maiden  wished  that  day  she  held  the  place  of  Clothilde, 
and  that  she,  too,  might  have  such  champion  as  the 
brown-haired  Conrad.  A  rich  cap  of  lace,  worked  by 
the  village  hands,  was  around  the  forehead  of  Clothilde  ; 
and  to  humor  the  pride  of  the  old  man,  her  father,  she 
had  added  the  fairest  flowers  which  grew  by  the  cottage 
door.  But,  fair  as  the  flowers  were,  the  face  of  Clo 
thilde  was  fairer. 

She  sat  between  the  old  herdsman  and  the  cure, 
upon  one  of  the  rustic  benches  which  circled  the  plateau 
of  green,  where  the  sports  were  held.  Tall  poles  of 
hemlock  or  of  fir,  dressed  with  garlands  of  Alpine  lau 
rel,  stood  at  the  end  of  the  little  arena,  where  the  valley 
champions  were  to  contend.  Among  these  were  some 
whose  strong  arms  and  lithe  figures  promised  a  hard 
struggle  to  the  hopeful  Conrad  ;  and  there  were  jealous 
ones  who  would  have  been  glad  to  humble  the  preten 
sions  of  one  so  favored  by  the  village  maidens,  as  the 
blue-eyed  hunter,  Friedland.  Many  looks  turned  curi 
ously  toward  the  bench,  where  sat  the  village  belle, 
whose  fortunes  seemed  to  hang  upon  the  fate  of  the  day ; 
but  her  brow  was  calm ;  and  there,  as  ever,  she  was 


164  SEVEN  STORIES. 

watchful  of  the  comfort  of  the  old  man,  her  father 
Half  of  the  games  had  passed  over  indeed  before  she 
showed  any  anxiety  in  the  issue  of  the  contest.  Con 
rad,  though  second  in  some  of  the  lesser  sports,  Lad 
generally  kept  the  first  rank ;  and  the  more  vigorous 
trials  to  come  would  test  his  rivals  more  seriously,  and 
would,  he  believed,  give  him  a  more  decided  triumph. 

When  the  wrestlers  were  called,  there  appeared  a 
stout  herdsman  from  the  valley  of  Grin  del  wald,  who 
was  the  pride  of  his  village,  and  who  challenged  boldly 
the  hunter,  Conrad.  He  was  taller  and  seemed  far 
stronger  than  the  champion  of  Lauterbrunnen ;  and 
there  were  those — the  old  herdsman  among  them — who 
feared  greatly  that  a  stranger  would  carry  off  the  prize. 
But  the  heart  of  the  hunter  was  fired  by  the  sight  of 
Clothilde,  now  bending  an  eager  look  upon  the  sports. 
He  accepted  the  challenge  of  the  stout  herdsman,  and 
they  grappled  each  other  in  the  mountain  way.  The 
stranger  was  the  stronger ;  but  the  limbs  of  Conrad 
were  as  supple  and  lithe  as  those  of  a  leopard.  For  a 
long  time  the  struggle  was  doubtful.  The  peasants  of 
Grindelwald  cheered  the  brawny  herdsman ;  and  the 
valley  rang  with  the  answering  shouts  of  the  men  of 
Lauterbrunnen.  And  they  who  were  near,  say  that 
Clothilde  grew  pale,  and  clutched  eagerly  the  arm  of 
the  cure — but  resumed  her  old  quietude  when  at  last, 
the  match  ended,  with  the  cry  of  "  Lauterbrunnen  for 
ever ! " 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  ICE-KING.  165 

After  this  came  the  cast  of  the  boulders.  One  after 
another,  the  younger  men  made  their  trial,  and  the 
limit  of  each  throw  was  marked  by  a  willow  wand  , 
while  in  the  cleft  of  each  wand  fluttered  a  little  pennant 
ribbon,  bestowed  by  well-wishing  maidens. 

Conrad,  taking  breath  after  his  wrestling  match,  ad 
vanced  composedly  to  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  arena, 
where  stood  the  fir  saplings  with  the  laurel  wreaths. 
He  lifted  the  largest  of  the  boulders  with  ease,  and 
giving  it  a  vigorous  cast,  retired  unconcerned.  The 
blue  strip  of  ribbon  which  presently  marked  its  fall,  was 
far  in  advance  of  the  rest.  Again  there  was  a  joyous 
shout.  The  men  of  Grindelwald  cried  out  loudly  for 
their  champion  ;  but  his  arm  was  tired,  and  his  throw 
was  scarce  even  with  the  second  of  the  men  of  Lauter- 
brunnen.  Again  the  shout  rose  louder  than  before,  and 
Conrad  Friedland  was  declared  by  the  village  umpires 
of  the  fete  to  be  the  victor  ;  and  by  will  of  the  old  herds 
man,  to  be  the  accepted  lover  of  the  beautiful  Clothilde. 
They  led  him  forward  to  the  stand  where  sat  the  cure, 
between  the  old  herdsman  and  the  herdsman's  daughter. 
Clothilde  grew  suddenly  pale.  Would  Conrad  keep  hia 
oath? 

Fear  may  have  confused  him,  or  fatigue  may  have 
forbid  his  utterance  ;  but  he  reached  forth  his  hand  for 
the  guerdon  of  the  day,  and  the  token  of  betrothal. 

Just  then  an  Alpine  horn  sounded  long  and  clear 


ICG  SE  YEN  STORIES. 

and  the  echoes  lingered  among  the  cliffs  and  in  the  spray 
of  the  Dust-fall.  It  was  the  call  of  a  new  challenger. 
By  the  laws  of  the  fete,  the  games  were  open  untU 
sunset,  and  the  new-comer  could  not  be  denied.  None 
had  seen  him  before.  His  frame  was  slight,  but  firmly 
knit ;  his  habit  was  of  the  finest  white  wool,  closed  at 
the  throat  with  rich  white  furs,  and  caught  together 
with  latchets  of  silver.  His  hair  and  beard  were  of  a 
light  flaxen  color,  and  his  chamois  boots  were  clamped 
and  spiked  with  polished  steel,  as  if  he  had  crossed  the 
glacier.  It  was  said  by  those  near  whom  he  passed, 
that  a  cold  current  of  air  followed  him,  and  that  his 
breath  was  frosted  on  his  beard,  even  under  the  mild 
sun  of  May.  He  said  no  word  to  any  ;  but  advancing 
with  a  stately  air  to  the  little  plateau  where  the  fir  spars 
stood  crowned  with  their  laurel  garlands,  he  seized  upon 
a  fragment  of  rock  larger  than  any  had  yet  thrown,  and 
cast  it  far  beyond  the  mark  where  the  blue  pennant  of 
Conrad  still  fluttered  in  the  wind. 

There  was  a  stifled  cry  of  amazement ;  and  the  won 
der  grew  greater  still,  when  the  stranger,  in  place  of 
putting  a  willow  wand  to  mark  his  throw,  seized  upon 
one  of  the  fir  saplings,  and  hurled  it  through  the  ah' 
with  such  precision  and  force,  that  it  fixed  itself  in  the 
sod  within  a  foot  of  the  half-embedded  boulder,  and 
rested  quivering  with  its  laurel  wreath  waving  from  the 
top.  The  vector  waited  for  no  conductor ;  but  march- 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  ICE-KTNO.  1C? 

ing  straight  to  the  benches  where  sat  the  bewildered 
maiden,  and  her  wonder-stricken  father,  bespoke  them 
thus :  "  Fair  lady,  the  prize  is  won ;  but  if  within  a 
year  and  a  day,  Conrad  Friedland  can  do  better  than 
this,  I  will  yield  him  the  palm :  until  then  I  go  to  my 
home  in  the  mountains." 

The  villagers  looked  on  amazed ;  Clothilde  alone 
was  calm,  but  silent.  None  had  before  seen  the 
stranger ;  none  had  noticed  his  approach,  and  his  de 
parture  was  as  secret  as  his  coming.  The  cure  mut 
tered  his  prayers  ;  the  village  maidens  recalled  by  timid 
whispers  his  fine  figure,  and  the  rich  furs  that  he  wore. 
And  Conrad,  recovering  from  his  stupor,  said  never  a 
word ;  but  musingly,  he  paced  back  and  forth  the 
length  of  the  throw  which  the  white-clad  stranger  had 
made.  The  old  man  swore  it  was  some  spirit,  and  bade 
Clothilde  accept  Conrad  at  once  as  a  protector  against 
the  temptations  of  the  Evil  one.  But  the  maiden,  more 
than  ever  wedded  to  her  visionary  life  by  this  sudden 
apparition,  dwelt  upon  the  words  of  the  stranger,  and 
repeating  them,  said  to  her  father,  "Let  Conrad  wait  a 
twelvemonth,  arid  if  he  passes  the  throw  of  the  unknown, 
I  will  be  his  bride." 

The  sun  sank  beyond  the  heights  of  the  Ober-Alp, 
and  the  villagers  whispering  low,  scattered  to  their 
homes.  CL)thilde  fancied  the  stranger  some  spiritual 
guardian  ;  most  of  all,  when  she  recalled  the  vow  which 


168  SE  VEN  STORIES. 

Conrad  had  made  and  broken.  She  remarked,  more 
over,  as  they  went  toward  their  chalet,  that  an  eagle  of 
the  Alps,  long  after  its  wonted  time  of  day,  hovered 
over  their  path ;  and  only  when  the  cottage-door  wag 
closed,  soared  away  to  the  cliffs  which  lift  above  the 
glaciers  of  the  Jungfrau. 

The  old  herdsman  began  now  to  regard  his  daughter 
with  a  strange  kind  of  awe.  He  consulted  long  and 
anxiously  with  the  good  cure.  Could  it  be  that  the 
mind  so  near  to  his  heart  was  leagued  with  the  spirit- 
world?  He  recalled  the  time  when  he  had  met  first  her 
mother  wandering  upon  the  mountains  ; — whence  had  she 
come  ?  And  was  the  stranger  of  the  festal  day  of  some 
far  kindred,  who  now  sought  his  own  ?  It  was  remem 
bered  how  the  mother  had  loved  the  daughter,  with  a 
love  that  was  jealous  of  the  father's  care  ;  and  how  she 
had  borne  her  in  her  arms  often  to  the  very  edge  of  the 
glacier,  and  had  lulled  Clothilde  to  sleep  by  the  murmur 
of  the  water  which  makes  mysterious  music  in  the 
heart  of  the  ice-mountains.  It  was  remembered  how 
Clothilde  had  mourned  her  mother,  seated  at  the  open 
ing  of  the  blue  glacier  caverns,  and  how,  of  all  roses, 
she  loved  best  the  Alpine  rose.  From  this  she  made 
votive  garlands  to  hang  upon  the  altar  of  "  Our  Lady  of 
the  Snow."  Did  the  mother  belong  to  the  genius  of  the 
mountains,  and  was  the  daughter  pledged  to  the  Ice- 
King  again? 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  ICE-KING.  16S 

The  poor  old  herdsman  bowed  his  head  in  prayer ; 
the  good  cure  whispered  words  of  comfort ;  Clothilde 
gang  as  she  had  sung  ia  the  days  gone  ;  but  the  old  man 
trembled  now  at  her  low  tones  which  thrilled  on  his  ear 
like  the  syren  sounds,  which  they  say  in  the  Alps,  go 
go  always  before  the  roar  of  some  great  avalanche.  Yet 
the  father's  heart  twined  more  and  more  around  the 
strange  spirit-being  of  Clothilde.  More  and  more,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  mother's  image  was  before  hin?. 
in  the  fair  child,  and  the  mother's  soul  looking  at  him 
from  out  the  pensive  eyes  of  Clothilde.  He  said  no 
word  now  of  the  marriage,  but  waited  with  resignation 
for  the  twelvemonth  to  pass.  And  he  looked  with  pity 
upon  the  strong-hearted  Conrad,  who  fiercer  and  more 
daring  than  before — as  if  a  secret  despair  had  given 
courage — scaled  the  steepest  cliffs,  and  brought  back 
stores  of  chamois  flesh,  of  which  he  laid  always  a  por 
tion  at  the  door  of  the  father  of  Clothilde. 

It  was  said,  too,  that  the  young  herdsman  might  be 
heard  at  night,  casting  boulders  in  the  valley,  and  nerv 
ing  his  arm  for  the  trial  of  the  twelvemonth  to  come. 
The  mother  of  the  young  herdsman  spoke  less  often 
ol  the  ten  dun  cows  which  fed  upon  the  pasture  grounds 
of  her  father,  and  counted  less  often  the  fifty  kids 
which  trooped  at  night  into  her  father's  folds  upon  the 
mountains.  Yet  ever  Clothilde  made  her  sunset  walks 
to  the  chapel  of  "  Our  Lady  of  the  Snow,"  and  ever  in 
8 


1 70  SE  YEN  STORIES. 

her  place,  in  the  village  church,  she  prayed  as  reverently 
as  before,  for  HEAVEN  to  bless  the  years  of  the  life  of 
the  old  man,  her  father.  If  she  lived  in  a  spirit-world, 
it  semeed  a  good  spirit-world ;  and  the  crystal  glory  of 
the  glacier,  where  no  foot  could  go,  imaged  to  her 
though*  the  stainless  purity  of  angels.  If  the  cure 
talked  with  Clothilde  of  the  heaven  where  her  mother 
had  gone,  and  where  all  the  good  will  follow — Clothilde 
pointed  to  the  mountains.  Did  he  talk  of  worship,  and 
the  anthems  which  men  sang  in  the  cathedrals  of  cities  ? 
Clothilde  said — "  Hark  to  the  avalanche  ! "  Did  he 
talk  of  a  good  spirit,  which  hovers  always  near  the 
faithful  ?  Clothilde  pointed  upward,  where  an  eagle  was 
soaring  above  the  glacier. 

As  the  year  passed  away,  mysterious  rumors  were 
spread  among  the  villagers :  and  there  were  those  who 
said  they  had  seen  at  eventide  Clothilde  talking  with  a 
stranger  in  white,  who  was  like  the  challenger  of  the 
year  before.  And  when  winter  had  mantled  the  lower 
hills,  it  was  said  that  traces  of  strange  feet  could  be 
seen  about  the  little  chapel  of  u  Our  Lady  of  the  Snow." 
Howbeit,  Clothilde  neglected  not  one  of  the  duties  which 
belonged  to  her  in  the  household  of  her  father ;  and 
her  willing  heart  and  hand  forbade  that  either  the  kind 
old  herdsman  or  the  cure  should  speak  aught  ill  of  her, 
or  forbid  her  the  mountain  rambles. 

The   old   mother  of  Conrad  grew  frighted  by  the 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  ICE-KING.  171 

stories  of  the  villagers,  and  prayed  tier  son  to  give  up 
all  thought  of  the  strange  Clothilde,  and  to  marry  a 
maiden  whose  heart  was  of  warmer  blood,  and  who 
kept  no  league  with  the  Evil  one.  But  Conrad  only  the 
more  resolutely  followed  the  bent  of  his  will,  and 
schooled  himself  for  the  coming  trial.  If  they  talked 
to  him  of  the  stranger,  he  vowed  with  a  fearful  oath, 
that — be  he  who  he  might — he  would  dare  him  to 
sharper  conflict  than  that  of  the  year  before. 

So,  at  length,  the  month  and  the  day  drew  near 
again.  It  was  early  spring-time.  The  wasting  snows 
still  whitened  the  edges  of  the  fields  which  hung  upon 
the  slopes  of  the  mountains.  The  meadow  of  the  fete 
had  lost  the  last  traces  of  winter,  and  a  fresh  green  sod, 
besprinkled  with  meadow  flowers,  glittered  under  the 
dew  and  the  sunlight. 

Clothilde  again  was  robed  with  care  ;  and  when 
the  old  herdsman  looked  on  her  under  the  wreath  she 
had  woven  from  the  cottage  flowers,  he  gave  over  all 
thought  of  her  tie  to  the  spirit-world,  and  clasped  her  to 
his  heart — "  his  own,  his  good  Clothilde  ! " 

On  the  day  preceding  the  fete,  there  had  been  heavy 
rain  ;  and  the  herdsmen  from  the  heights  reported  thai 
the  winter's  snows  were  loosening,  and  would  soon 
come  down,  after  which  would  be  broad  summer  and 
the  ripening  of  the  crops.  Scarce  a  villager  was  away 
from  the  wrestling  ground ;  for  all  had  heard  of  Clo* 


172  SEVEN  STORIES. 

thiide,  and  of  the  new  and  strange  comer  who  had  chal 
lenged  the  pride  of  the  valley,  and  had  disappeared — 
none  knew  whither.  Was  Conrad  Friedland  to  lose 
again  his  guerdon  ? 

The  games  went  on,  with  the  old  man,  father  of 
Clo thiide,  watching  timidly,  and  the  good  cure  holding 
his  accustomed  place  beside  him.  There  were  young 
herdsmen  who  appeared  this  year  for  the  first  time 
among  the  wrestlers,  and  who  the  past  twelvemonth 
had  ripened  into  sturdy  manhood.  But  the  firm  and 
the  tried  sinews  of  the  hunter  Conrad  placed  him  be 
fore  all  these,  as  he  was  before  all  the  others.  Not  so 
many,  however,  as  on  the  year  before  envied  him  his 
spirit-bride.  Yet  none  could  gainsay  her  beauty ;  for 
this  day  her  face  was  radiant  with  a  rich  glow,  and  her 
clear  complexion,  relieved  by  the  green  garland  she 
wore,  made  her  seem  a  princess. 

As  the  day's  sports  went  on,  a  cool,  damp  wind  blew 
up  the  valley,  and  clouds  drifted  over  the  summits  of  the 
mountains.  Conrad  had  made  himself  the  victor  in 
every  trial.  To  make  his  triumph  still  more  brilliant, 
he  had  surpassed  the  throw  of  his  unknown  rival  of  the 
year  before.  At  sight  of  this,  the  villagers  raised  one 
loud  shout  of  greeting,  which  echoed  from  end  to  end 
of  the  valley.  And  the  brave  huntsman,  flushed  with 
victory,  dared  boldly  the  stranger  of  the  white  jerkin 
and  the  silver  latchets  to  appear  and  maintain  his  claims 
to  the  queen  of  the  valley — the  beautiful  Clothilda. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  ICE-KING.  173 

There  was  a  momentary  hush,  broken  only  by  the 
distant  murmur  of  the  Dust-fall.  The  thickening  clouds 
drifted  fast  athwart  the  mountains.  Clothilde  grew 
suddenly  pale,  though  the  old  herdsman  her  father  was 
wild  with  joy.  The  cure  watched  the  growing  paleness 
of  Clothilde,  and  saw  her  eye  lift  toward  the  head  of 
the  glacier. 

"  Bear  away  my  father !  "  said  she,  in  a  quick  tone 
of  authority.  In  a  moment  the  reason  was  apparent. 
A  roar,  as  of  thunder,  filled  the  valley ;  a  vast  mass  of 
the  glacier  above  had  given  way,  and  its  crash  upon  the 
first  range  of  cliffs  now  reached  the  ear.  The  fragments 
of  ice  and  rock  were  moving  with  frightful  volume 
down  towards  the  plateau.  The  villagers  fled  scream 
ing  ;  the  father  of  Clothilde  was  borne  away  by  tho 
cure  ;  Clothilde  herself  was,  for  the  time,  lost  sight  of. 
The  eye  of  Conrad  was  keen,  and  his  judgment  rare. 
He  saw  the  avalanche  approaching,  but  he  did  not  fly 
like  others.  An  upper  plateau  and  a  thicket  of  pine- 
trees  were  in  the  path  of  the  avalanche ;  he  trusted  to 
these  to  avert  or  to  stay  the  ruin.  As  he  watched, 
while  others  shouted  him  a  warning,  he  caught  sight 
of  the  figure  of  Clothilde,  in  the  arms  of  a  stranger  fly 
ing  toward  the  face  of  the  mountain.  He  rushed  wildly 
after. 

A  fearful  crash  succeeded  ;  the  avalanche  had  crossed 
the  plateau,  and  swept  down  the  fir-trees ;  the  trunks 


1 74  SEVEN  STORIES. 

splintered  before  it,  like  summer  brambles  ;  the  detached 
rocks  were  hurled  down  in  showers ;  immense  masses 
of  ice  followed  quickly  after,  roaring  over  the  debris  of 
the  forest,  and  with  a  crash  that  shook  the  whole  valley, 
reached  the  meadow  below.  Swift  as  lightning,  whole 
acres  of  the  green  sod  were  torn  up  by  the  wreck  of  the 
forest  trees  and  rocks,  and  huge,  gleaming  masses  of 
ice  ;  and  then,  more  slowly,  with  a  low  murmur — like  a 
requiem,  came  the  flow  of  lesser  snowy  fragments,  cov 
ering  the  great  ruin  with  a  mantle  of  white. 

Poor  Conrad  Friedland  was  buried  beneath  ! 

The  villagers  had  all  fled  in  safety ;  but  the  green 
meadow  of  the  fetes  was  a  meadow  no  longer.  Those 
who  were  hindermost  in  the  flight  said  they  saw  the 
stranger  in  white  bearing  Clothilde,  in  her  white  robes, 
up  the  face  of  the  mountain.  It  is  certain  that  she  was 
never  seen  in  the  valley  again  ;  and  the  poor  old  herds 
man,  her  father,  died  shortly  after,  leaving  his  stock  of 
dun  cows  and  his  fifty  kids  to  the  village  euro,  to  buy 
masses  for  the  rest  of  his  daughter's  soul. 

"  This,"  said  the  German, "  is  the  story  of  the  Bride 
of  the  Ice-King ; "  and  he  relit  his  pipe. 

The  snow  had  now  passed  over,  and  the  stars  were 
out.  Before  us  was  the  giaut  wall  of  the  Jungfrau, 
with  a  little  rattle  of  glacier  artillery  occasionally  break 
ing  the  silence  of  the  night.  To  the  left  was  the  tall 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  ICE-KING.  175 

peak  of  the  Wetterhorn,  gleaming  white  in  the  star 
light  ;  and  far  away  to  the  right,  we  could  see  the 
shining  glaciers  at  the  head  of  the  Lauterbrmmen 
valley. 


FIFTH  STORY: 


THE      JABRIOLET 


FIFTH  STORY: 


The  Cabriolet. 

A  HOT  July  day  in  Paris.  It  is  hard  to  be  borne ; 
and  shall  I  persist  in  frying  my  daily  dish 
of  nettlepots  under  the  leads  of  the  Hotel  de  Louvre, 
when  a  day  will  carry  me  where  I  may  take  breath  and 
refreshment  under  the  waving  poplars  that  tuft  French 
wayside — stiff,  serried  plumes  that  run  everywhere  in 
France  out  to  the  horizon,  and  keep  up  the  illusion  of 
army  clank  and  marching  grenadiers  ? 

Will  the  reader  join  me  in  this  escapade  into  the 
French  country — where  I  will  not  poetize,  but  will  tell, 
simply  and  truly,  what  I  see,  and  what  I  hear  ? 

Do  you  not  love  to  amble,  after  all,  with  this  sort  of 
traveller,  who  admits  you  to  pack  with  him,  to  eat  his 


1 80  SEVEN  STORIES. 

last  meal  with  him,  to  miss  the  train  with  him,  to  dine 
with  him,  to  see  common  things  commonly?  Are  not 
all  the  great  things  in  the  guide-books,  the  gift-books, 
and  the  poets?  Can  I  kindle  them  over?  Are  they 
not  burned  to  a  crisp  in  your  thought  already — only 
ashes  left, — which  you  spread  upon  your  own  fancies  (as 
wood-ashes  to  home  patches  of  clover)  to  make  them 
grow? 

Well — we  (the  reader  and  I)  pack  our  portmanteau; 
'tis  a  small  one  ;  when  you  are  old  in  travel  you  will  al 
ways  carry  a  small  one  ;  the  more  experience,  the  less 
the  luggage  ;  if  you  need  coat  or  linen,  you  shall  find 
coat  and  linen  in  every  capital  of  Europe ;  they  wear 
such  things  in  all  civilized  countries  ;  they  sell  them, 
too.  We  therefore  bundle  together  only  such  things  as 
we  positively  need,  and  giving  them  into  the  hands  of  a 
facteur,  we  direct  him  to  carry  our  luggage  to  the  of 
fice  of  the  Diligences,  a  little  way  out  of  the  Rue  St. 
Honor e.  We  book  our  portmanteau  there  for  the  east 
ern  town  of  Dole,  lying  in  the  way  to  Switzerland,  and 
within  sight  of  the  best  vineyard  slopes  of  Burgundy. 

Our  next  step  shall  be  to  go  around  to  the  passage 
Vero-Dodat,  and  buy  a  goat-skin  knapsack  ;  it  is  large 
enough  for  a  change  of  linen,  a  guide-book,  an  extra 
pair  of  woollen  socks,  soap  and  brushes,  a  pocket-tele 
scope,  and  perhaps  a  miniature  Tennyson— for  rainy 
days  in  the  mountains. 


THE  CABRIOLET.  181 

With  this — a  slouch,  broad-brimmed  hat,  a  service 
able  tweed  suit,  and  heavy  walking  shoes,  we  call  a  cab, 
drive  down  the  Rue  Rivoli  and  the  Rue  St.  Antoine, 
—cross  the  Place  of  the  Bastile,  and  arrive  presently  at 
the  station-house  of  the  Lyons  Railway.  We  pay  a 
fare  of  twenty-five  sous  (we  should  have  paid  a  dollar 
in  New  York) ,  and  take  a  ticket  for  Fontainbleau. 

Why  should  we,  with  our  hob-nailed  shoes  and 
tweed  overalls  take  a  first-class  place  ?  Ah,  the  tender 
ly-proud  Americans  !  so  vain  of  extravagance — so  jeal 
ous  of  anything  like  privilege — what  muttons  they 
make  for  the  innkeepers  !  We  have  outlived  this  ;  we 
take  a  second-class  seat ;  we  pay  less  by  a  third ;  we 
see  more  of  the  natives  by  half;  we  have  plenty  of  air  ; 
we  have  cushioned  seats  (though  they  may  be  covered 
with  striped  bed-ticking)  ;  and  the  chances  are  even 
that  we  shall  have  beside  us  some  member  of  the  Insti 
tute  of  France,  some  eminent  professional  man,  who 
dislikes  at  once  the  seclusion  and  the  price  of  the  first- 
class  carriage. 

Away  we  hurtle ;  the  houses,  the  trees,  the  fortifi 
cations,  the  plains,  the  great  outstanding  barracks,  the 
white  villages,  drift  into  the  dreamy  distance,  where  the 
domes  of  Paris  gleam  in  the  haze  like  sparkling  dande 
lions  on  a  dewy  meadow.  When  we  stop  at  Fontaine- 
bleau,  after  a  two  hours'  ride,  we  deliver  our  ticket 
within  the  station-house  ;  and  as  we  shoulder  our  knap- 


182  SEVEN  STORIES. 

sack,  and  inarch  into  the  town,  we  hear  the  buzz  of  the 
train  as  it  sweeps  on  toward  Lyons. 

We  stop  at  the  inn  of  the  Cadran  Bleu ;  a  fat  land 
lady  receives  us — shows  us  to  a  little  chamber,  not  so 
large,  perhaps,  as  your  attic  rooms  of  the  New  York 
hotels,  but  only  up  a  single  flight  of  stairs  ;  the  floor  i3 
of  red  tiles,  which  have  been  waxed  that  morning  only, 
and  shine,  and  would  seem  slippery,  except  for  our 
good  hob-nailed  shoes.  There  is  a  dainty  bed,  with 
coarse,  cool,  clean  linen,  and  a  water-pitcher  of  most 
Liliputian  make. 

"  Has  Monsieur  breakfasted?" 

Of  course  we  have  breakfasted  before  ten  o'clock ; 
still  we  will  have  a  bite,  since  the  ride  and  the  fresh 
air  of  the  country  have  sharpened  our  appetite. 

We  will  have  a  steak  aux  pommes,  and  a  half  bottle 
of  Beaune,  and  perhaps  a  bit  of  cheese  and  a  plate  of 
cherries. 

"  Tres  lien ! "  says  the  landlady.  And  when  we 
have  washed  the  dust  from  our  eyes,  and  gone  below, 
into  the  long  sallc-a-manger,  a  tidy  French  girl  (who 
would  be  a  grisette  if  she  went  to  Paris)  is  laying  our 
cloth  upon  an  end  of  the  table,  and  we  snuff  the  odor 
of  the  steak,  mingled  with  that  of  the  jessamines  from 
the  garden.  And  as  we  eat  with  sharpened  taste  (for 
the  Beaune  is  an  appetizing  wine) ,  we  rejoice  in  the 
pleasant  escape  we  have  made  ;  we  compare  that  quiet 


THE  CABRIOLET.  183 

lunch,  within  sound  of  the  roar  of  the  great  French  for 
est,  and  only  a  stone' s-throw  away  from  the  magnificent 
home  of  Francis  the  First,  with  the  lunches  you  may  be 
taking  in  the  crowd  of  Saratoga  or  Newport,  amidst  the 
clamor  of  a  hundred  waiters,  and — frankly — we  pity 
you.  In  sheerest  benevolence,  we  wish  we  might  single 
out  a  pretty  face  and  figure  from  the  hubbub  of  your 
watering  places,  and  place  them  beside  us  here  in  the 
Cadran  Bleu,  and  turn  out  a  drop  of  the  petillant,  gen 
erous  wine,  to  moisten  the  fair  lips  withal ; — how  she 
would  forget  the  hob-nails,  and  we — the  hoops  ; — how  we 
would  luxuriate  in  the  cool,  scented  air,  and  loiter  away 
afterward  in  the  coppices  of  the  palace  garden  ! 

As  we  said,  the  great  things  of  travel  are  all  fami 
liar  ;  we  leave  them  utterly ;  we  pass  through  the  Pal 
ace-yard — away  from  the  companies  of  strangers  who 
are  passing  in  and  out  of  the  royal  apartments — and 
loiter  on  along  the  terrace,  to  the  parapet  that  skirts  the 
garden  pond.  We  sit  there,  idly  nicking  our  hob-nailed 
shoes  against  the  wall,  looking  over  to  the  rich  sweep 
of  lawn  and  clumps  of  shrubbery  that  stretch  away  from 
the  farther  shore.  We  buy  a  cake  from  an  old  woman, 
and  break  it,  and  fling  it  to  the  fishes ;  these  come 
crowding  to  the  bait  by  hundreds — heavy,  lumbering 
carp,  who  have  lived  in  those  waters  these  fifty  years, 
perhaps  a  century,  and  may  have  risen  to  catch  bread 
crumbs  from  the  hand  of  some  pretty  Dauphiness  in 


1  £  4  SEVEN  STORIES. 

the  days  gone.  There  are  hoary  veterans  among  them^ 
wagging  their  tails  gravely,  and  blotched  over  with 
gray  spots,  who  it  is  said,  date  back  as  far  as  the  times 
of  Francis  the  First.  What  a  quiet,  serene  life  they 
must  have  passed  !  How  much  more  royally  than  kings 
they  have  braved  the  storms  and  the  weaknesses  of  age  ! 
The  air  is  delightfully  cool ;  the  fragrance  of  a  thousand 
flowering  things  is  on  it ;  the  shadow  of  the  farther 
trees  falls  heavy  on  the  water.  There  are  worse  places 
to  loiter  in  than  the  gardens  of  Fontainbleau. 

What,  now,  if  we  wander  away  into  the  forest,  com 
paring,  as  we  go,  the  nibbling,  ancient  fishes  of  the 
pool,  to  that  bait-seeking  fry  we  have  seen  in  other 
times  and  other  watering-places — fat,  dowdy  dowagers  ; 
brisk  young  misses,  in  shoals  ;  bright-waistcoated  bucks 
— all  disporting  like  the  carp — coming  by  turns  to  the 
surface — making  a  little  break  and  a  few  eddies — catch 
ing  at  floating  crumbs — and  retiring,  when  the  season 
is  over,  to  hibernate  under  some  overhanging  roof-tree 
which  they  call  Home  ? 

Oaks,  beeches,  tangled  undergrowth,  moss  un- 
der-foot,  gray  boulders,  long  vistas  of  highway 
stretching  to  a  low  horizon  ;  artists  sketching  on 
camp-stools  ;  Mr.  Smith,  and  wife  and  daughter, 
driving  in  a  crazy  phaeton  (wife  and  daughter  wearing 
green  frights,  and  reading  Mr.  Murray) — all  these  we 
see,  as  we  loiter  on  through  the  paths  of  the  forest.  We 


THE  CABRIOLET.  185 

make  three  leagues  of  tramp  by  sundown,  and  are  ready 
for  our  dinner  at  the  Cadran  Bleu ;  Mr.  Smith  and 
wife  and  daughter  are  just  finishing  theirs,  at  the  end  of 
the  long  table.  They  mistake  our  nationality,  and  re 
mark  somewhat  freely  upon  French  taste  in  matters  of 
diet.  They  are  apparently  from  Huddersfield ;  they  do 
not  once  suspect  that  a  man  with  a  beard,  whom  they 
meet  at  the  Cadran  Bleu,  can  speak  or  understand 
English.  So,  as  we  eat  our  filet  sauti  aux  champignons, 
we  learn  that  the  oaks  in  Windsor  Park  are  much  finer 
than  those  of  Fontainbleau ;  that  the  French  beer  ig 
watery  stuff;  and  that  the  Americans  are  not  the  only 
self-satisfied  people  in  the  world. 

Mr.  Smith,  wife  and  daughter,  drop  away  at  length  , 
we  wander  under  the  shade  of  the  palace  walls  ;  a  dra 
goon  passes  from  time  to  time,  with  sabre  clattering  at 
his  heels ;  the  clock  in  the  great  court,  where  Napoleon 
bade  his  army  adieu  before  Elba,  sounds  ten  as  we  turn 
back  to  the  inn ;  and  from  our  window  we  see  the  stars 
all  aglow,  and  feel  the  breath  of  the  forest. 

CoiFee  at  six  with  two  fresh  eggs.  If  you  cairy  a 
knapsack,  you  must  carry  early  habits  with  it.  The 
hostess  brings  our  little  bill,  smilingly  ;  we  promised  to 
tell  you  of  commonest  details,  so  you  shall  see  the  p?ice 
of  our  entertainment : 


186  SEVEN  STORIES. 

Lunch  .            .            .  .2  francs. 

Wine     ....  2  francs. 

Dinner  .            .            .  .4  francs. 

Room  .            .            .  3  francs. 

Wax-light  .            .            .  .1  franc. 

Breakfast  ...  2  francs. 

Service  .            .            .  .1  franc. 

Being  a  total  of  fifteen  francs.  It  is  not  over  dear, 
when  we  reckon  the  pleasant  Burgundy  we  have  drunk, 
and  remember,  too,  that  Fontainbleau  is  as  near  (in 
time)  to  Paris,  as  Rockaway  to  New  Yorkc 

How  the  birds  sing  in  the  woods;  and  how  the 
dew  shines  upon  the  nodding  clover,  which  shows 
itself  here  and  there  by  the  wayside !  After  two 
hours'  march — better  than  two  leagues — we  sit  down 
in  the  edge  of  the  forest.  We  have  passed  a  woodman 
with  his  cart,  a  boy  driving  cattle,  and  a  soldier  with 
his  coat  slung  over  his  shoulder.  We  shall  scarce 
see  any  others  till  we  are  out  of  the  wood. 

A  half  hour  there,  under  the  oaks,  and  we  are 
ready  for  the  tramp  again.  We  are  only  putting  our 
selves  in  walking  trim  for  the  passes  of  Switzerland, 
and  so  take  this  level  country  very  leisurely.  The  little 
town  of  Fossard  lies  just  upon  the  outskirts  of  the 
forest.  We  welcome  it  gladly;  for  by  the  time  it  is 
reached  it  is  full  noon.  There  is  a  straggling,  white, 
low  cottage  of  stone,  covered  with  mortar,  and  shaded 


THE  CABRIOLET.  187 

perhaps  by  a  pear  or  a  plum-tree  ;  then  another, — like 
the  first ;  a  woman  in  sabots  (which  are  heavy  beechen 
shoes)  ;  and  at  last  a  larger  cottage,  with  a  fern  bough 
over  the  door,  and  a  floor  covered  with  baked  tiles, 
glossed  over  with  grease,  wax,  and  filth.  The  bough 
means  that  we  may  find  bread,  cheese,  and  wine  there, 
and  if  not  over-fastidious,  a  bed.  The  bread  we  take, 
and  a  bottle  of  sour  wine ;  and  sit  at  the  deal  table, 
writing  there  very  much  of  what  you  are  reading  now, 
in  our  pocket  note-book. 

So  we  push  on  our  summer  jaunt ;  fatigue  ;  rest  in 
villages ;  strange  dishes  of  stewed  pears ;  Gruyere 
cheese ;  country  fairs,  where  at  eventide,  we  see  the 
maidens  dancing  on  the  green  sward ;  high  old  towns 
with  toppling  towers  ;  walks  through  vineyards ;  long 
levels ;  woody  copses,  over  which  we  see  extinguisher 
turrets  of  country  chateaux. 

But  all  this  grows  tiresome  at  length  ;  and  when  we 
have  reached  the  little  shabby  town  of  St.  Florentin,  on 
the  third  day,  we  venture  to  inquire  about  some  coach 
(for  we  are  away  from  the  neighborhood  of  railways) 
which  shall  take  us  on  to  Dole.  But  at  St  Florentin 
there  is  no  coach,  not  even  so  much  as  a  voiturt,  a  volonte, 
to  be  found ;  so  we  buckle  on  our  knapsack,  and  toil  along 
under  the  poplars  to  a  little  village  far  off  in  the  plain, 
where  we  are  smuggled  into  what  passes  for  the  coupe 
of  a  broken-down  diligence.  A  man  and  little  girl,  whc 


188  SEVEN  STORIES. 

together  occupy  the  third  seat,  regale  themselves  with  p 
fricandeau  stuffed  with  garlic.  The  day  is  cool,  the 
windows  down,  the  air  close,  and  the  perfume — (when 
you  travel  on  the  by-ways  of  France,  learn  patience). 

That  night  we  reach  a  town  where  lived  that  prince 
of  boys'  story-books  about  animals — Buffon.  A  tower 
rises  on  the  hills  beside  the  town,  covered  with  ivy — 
gray,  and  venerable,  and  sober-looking  ;  and  the  postil 
lion  says  it  is  Buffon' s  tower,  and  that  the  town  is  called 
Buffon. 

We  desire  to  get  to  Dole  as  soon  as  possible  ;  so  the 
next  morning — voild  un  cabriolet  I — to  catch  the  diligence 
that  passes  through  the  old  town  of  Semur.  This 
French  cabriolet  which  we  take  at  Buffon,  is  very  much 
like  a  Scotch  horse-cart  with  a  top  upon  it.  It  has  a 
broad  leather-cushioned  seat  in  the  back,  large  enough 
for  three  persons.  One  is  already  occupied  by  a  pretty 
woman,  of  some  four  or  five  and  twenty.  The  postillion 
is  squatted  on  a  bit  of  timber  that  forms  the  whipple- 
tree.  We  bid  adieu  to  our  accommodating  landlady, 
take  off  our  hat  to  the  landlady's  daughter,  and  so  go 
jostling  out  of  the  old  French  town  of  Buffon,  which, 
ten  to  one,  we  shall  never  see  again  in  our  lives. 

What  think  you,  pray,  of  a  drive  in  a  French  cab 
riolet,  with  a  pretty  woman  of  five  and  twenty  ?  We 
will  tell  you  all — just  as  it  happened.  Our  cigar  chances 
to  be  unfinished.  "  Of  course,  smoking  was  offensive  to 
mademoiselle  ? " 


THE  CABRIOLET.  189 

It  proved  otherwise  ;  "  Oh  no  !  her  husband  was  a 
great  smoker." 

"  Ah,  ma  foi !  can  it  be  that  madame,  so  young,  is 
indeed  married !  " 

"  It  is  indeed  true" — and  there  is  a  glance  both  of 
pleasure  and  of  sadness  in  the  woman's  eye. 

We  begin  to  speculate  upon  what  that  gleam  of 
pleasure  and  of  sadness  may  mean ;  and,  finally,  curi 
osity  gains  on  speculation.  "  Perhaps  madame  is  trav 
elling  from  Paris  like  ourselves  !  " 

u  No  ;  but  she  has  been  at  Paris.  What  a  charm 
ing  city  !  those  delicious  Boulevards  and  the  shops,  and 
the  Champs  Ely  sees  ! " 

"  And  if  rnadame  is  not  coming  from  Paris,  perhaps 
she  is  going  to  Paris  ?  " 

"Non  plus;"  even  now  we  are  not  right.  "  She 
is  coming  from  Chalons,  she  is  going  to  Sernur." 

"  Madame  lives  then,  perhaps,  at  Sernur?" 

"  Pardon,  she  is  going  for  a  visit." 

"  And  her  husband  is  left  alone  then?" 

"  Pardon"  (and  there  is  a  manifest  sigh),  he  is  not 
alone."  And  madame  rearranges  the  bit  of  lace  on  each 
side  of  her  bonnet,  and  turns  half  around,  so  as  to  show 
more  fairly  a  very  pretty  brunette  face,  and  an  exceed 
ingly  roguish  eye. 

"  We  are  curious  to  know  if  it  is  madame' s  first  visit 
to  Semur?" 


190  SEVEN  STORIES. 

"  Du  tout ! "  and  she  sighs. 

"  Madame  then  has  friends  at  Semur?" 

"  Ma  foil  je  ne  saurais  vous  dire."  She  does  iiot 
know. 

This  is  very  odd,  we  think.  "  And  who  can  madame 
be  going  to  visit  ?  " 

"  Her  father — if  he  is  still  living." 

"  But  how  can  she  doubt,  if  she  has  lived  so  near  as 
Chalons?" 

11  Pardon,  I  have  not  lived  at  Chalons,  but  at  Bor 
deaux,  and  Montpelier,  and  Pau,  and  along  the  Biscayau 
mountains." 

"  And  is  it  long  since  she  has  seen  her  father?" 

"  Yery  long ;  ten  long — long  years  ;  then  they  were 
so  happy  !  Ah  !  the  charming  country  of  Semur  ;  the 
fine  sunny  vineyards,  and  all  so  gay,  and  her  sister  and 
little  brother — "  (madame  pulls  a  handkerchief  of  lattiste 
out  of  a  little  silken  bag) . 

We  turn  slightly  to  have  a  fuller  sight  of  her. 

We  knew  "  it  would  be  a  glad  thing  to  meet  them 
all ! " 

"  Jamais,  Monsieur,  never,  I  can  not ;  they  are 
gone  !  "  and  she  turned  her  head  away. 

The  French  country-women  are  simple-minded,  ear 
nest,  and  tell  a  story  much  better  and  easier  than  any 
women  in  the  world.  We  thought — we  said,  indeed — 
"  she  was  young  to  have  wandered  so  far  ;  she  must  have 


THE  CABRIOLET.  191 

been  very  young  to  have  quitted  her  father's  house  ten 
years  gone-by." 

"  Very  young — very  foolish,  Monsieur.  I  see,"  says 
she,  turning,  "  that  you  want  to  know  how  it  was,  and 
if  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  listen,  I  will  tell  you,  Mon 
sieur." 

Of  course  we  were  very  happy  to  listen  to  so  charm 
ing  a  story-teller ;  and  our  readers  as  well,  perhaps. 

"  You  know,  Monsieur,  the  quiet  of  one  of  our  little 
country  towns  very  well ;  Semur  is  one  of  them.  My 
father  was  a  small  proprietaire ;  the  house  he  lived  in  is 
not  upon  the  road,  or  I  would  show  it  to  you  by-and-by. 
It  had  a  large  court-yard,  with  an  arched  gateway — 
and  there  were  two  hearts  cut  upon  the  top  stone ;  the 
initials  of  my  grandfather  and  grandmother  on  either 
side  ;  and  all  were  pierced  by  a  little  dart.  I  dare  say 
you  have  seen  many  such  as  you  have  wandered  through 
the  country ;  but  now-a-days  they  do  not  make  them. 

"Well,  my  mother  died  when  I  was  a  little  girl, 
and  my  father  was  left  with  three  children — my  sister, 
little  Jacques,  and  I.  Many  and  many  a  time  we  used 
to  romp  about  the  court-yard,  and  sometimes  go  into 
the  fields  at  vineyard  dressing,  and  pluck  off  the  long 
tendrils  ;  and  I  would  tie  them  round  the  head  of  little 
Jacques  ;  and  my  sister,  who  was  a  year  older  than  I, 
and  whose  name  was  Lucie,  would  tie  them  around  my 
head.  It  looked  very  pretty,  to  be  sure,  Monsieur  ;  and 


192  SEVEN  STORIES. 

I  was  so  proud  of  little  Jacques,  and  of  myself  too ;  1 
wish  they  would  come  back,  Monsieur — those  times ! 
Do  you  know  I  think  sometimes  that,  in  Heaven,  they 
will  come  back? 

"  I  do  not  know  which  was  prettiest — Lucie  or  I ; 
she  was  taller  and  had  lighter  hair  ;  and  mine,  you  see, 
is  dark.  (Two  rows  of  curls  hung  each  side  of  her 
face,  jet  black.)  I  know  I  was  never  envious  of  her." 

"  There  was  little  need." 

"You  think  not,  Monsieur;  you  shall  see,  pres 
ently. 

"  I  have  told  you  that  my  father  was  a  small  propri* 
etaire ;  there  was  another  in  the  town  whose  lands  were 
greater  than  ours,  and  who  boasted  of  having  been 
some  time  connected  with  noble  blood,  and  who  quite 
looked  down  upon  our  family.  But  there  is  little  of 
that  feeling  left  now  in  the  French  country — and  I  thank 
God  for  it,  Monsieur.  And  Jean  Frere,  who  was  a  son 
of  this  proud  gentleman,  had  none  of  it  when  we  were 
young. 

"  There  was  no  one  in  the  village  he  went  to  see 
oftener  than  he  did  Lucie  and  me.  And  we  talked  like 
girls  then,  about  who  should  marry  Jean,  and  never 
thought  of  what  might  really  happen ;  and  our  bonne 
used  to  say,  when  we  spoke  of  Jean,  that  there  were 
others  as  good  as  Jean  in  the  land,  and  capital  hus 
bands  in  plenty.  And  then  we  would  laugh,  and  some* 


THE  CABRIOLET.  193 

times  tie  the  hand  of  Jacques  to  the  hand  of  some  pretty 
girl,  and  so  marry  them,  and  never  mind  Jacques'  pet 
tish  struggles,  and  the  pouts  of  the  little  bride ;  and 
Jean  himself  would  laugh  as  loud  as  any  at  this  play. 

"  Sometimes  Jean's  father  would  come  when  we  were 
romping  together,  and  take  Jean  away ;  and  sometimes 
kiss  little  Jacques,  and  say  he  was  a  young  rogue,  but 
have  never  a  word  for  us. 

u  So  matters  went  on  till  Lucie  was  eighteen,  and 
Jacques  a  fine  tall  lad.  Jean  was  not  so  rich  as  he  had 
been,  for  his  father's  vineyard  had  grown  poor.  Still 
he  came  to  see  us,  and  all  the  village  said  there  would 
be  a  marriage  some  day ;  and  some  said  it  would  be 
Lucie,  and  some  said  it  would  be  I. 

"  And  now  it  was  I  began  to  watch  Lucie  when 
Jean  came  ;  and  to  count  the  times  he  danced  with  Lu 
cie,  and  then  to  count  the  times  that  he  danced  with  me. 
But  I  did  not  dare  to  joke  with  Lucie  about  Jean,  and 
when  we  were  together  alone,  we  scarce  ever  talked  of 
Jean." 

"  You  were  not  in  love  with  him,  of  course?" 

"I  did  not  say  so,"  said  madame.  "But  he  was 
handsomer  than  any  of  the  young  men  we  saw ;  and  I 
so  young— never  mind  ! 

"  You  do  not  know  how  jealous  I  became.  We  had 
a  room  together,  Lucie  and  I,  and  often  in  the  night  I 
would  steal  to  her  bod  and  listen,  to  find  if  she  ever 
13 


194  SEVEN  STORIES. 

whispered  anything  in  her  dreams  ;  and  sometimes  when 
I  came  in  at  evening,  I  would  find  her  weeping.  I  re 
member  I  went  to  her  once,  and  put  my  arm  softly 
around  her  neck,  and  asked  her  what  it  was  that  trou 
bled  her ;  and  she  only  sobbed.  I  asked  her  if  I  had 
offended  her  ;  '  You  ! '  said  she, i  ma  sceur,  ma  mignon- 
ne ! '  and  she  laid  her  head  upon  my  shoulder,  and  cried 
more  than  ever  ;  and  I  cried  too. 

"  So  matters  went  on,  and  we  saw,  though  we  did 
not  speak  to  each  other  of  it,  that  Jean  came  to  see  us 
more  and  more  rarely,  and  looked  sad  when  he  parted 
with  us,  and  did  not  play  so  often  with  little  Jacques. 

"  At  length — how  it  was  we  women  never  knew — 
it  was  said  that  poor  Jean's  father,  the  proud  gentle 
man,  had  lost  all  his  money,  and  that  he  was  going 
away  to  Paris.  "We  felt  very  badly ;  and  we  asked 
Jean,  the  next  time  he  came  to  see  us,  if  it  was  all  true  ? 
lie  said  that  it  was  true,  and  that  the  next  year  they 
were  going  away,  and  that  he  should  never  see  us  again. 
Poor  Jean  ! — how  he  squeezed  my  hand  as  he  said  this  ; 
but  in  his  other  hand  he  held  Lucie's.  Lucie  was  more 
sensitive  than  I,  and  when  I  looked  at  her,  I  couid  see 
that  the  tears  were  coming  in  her  eyes. 

"  '  You  will  be  sorry  when  I  am  gone  ? '  said  Jean. 

"  c  You  know  we  shall/  said  I ;  and  I  felt  the  tears 
coming  too. 

41 A  half  year  had  gone,  and  the  time  was  approach- 


THE  CABRIOLET.  195 

ing  when  Jean  was  to  leave  us.     He  had  come  at  intei 
vals  to  pass  his  evenings  with  us  ;  he  was  always  a  lit 
tle    moody,  as   if  some   trouble  was   preying   on   his 
mind  ;  and  was  always  very  kind  to  Lucie,  an.d  kinder 
still,  I  thought,  to  me. 

"  At  length,  one  day,  his  father,  a  stately  old  gentle 
man,  came  down  and  asked  to  see  my  father ;  and  he 
staid  with  him  half  an  hour,  and  the  thing  was  so  new 
that  the  whole  village  said  there  would  be  a  marriage. 
And  I  wandered  away  alone  with  little  Jacques,  and  sat 
down  under  an  old  tree — I  shall  try  hard  to  find  the 
place — and  twisted  a  garland  for  little  Jacques,  and 
then  tore  it  in  pieces  ;  and  twisted  another  and  tore  that 
in  pieces,  and  then  cried,  so  that  Jacques  said  he  be 
lieved  I  was  crazy.  But  I  kissed  him  and  said,  '  No, 
Jacques,  sister  is  not  crazy  ! ' 

"  When  I  went  home,  I  found  Lucie  sad,  and  papa 
sober  and  thoughtful ;  but  he  kissed  me  very  tenderly, 
and  told  me,  as  he  often  did,  how  dearly  he  loved  me. 
The  next  day  Jean  did  not  come,  nor  the  next,  nor  the 
next  after.  J>  could  not  bear  it  any  longer,  so  I  asked 
papa  what  Jean's  father  had  said  to  him,  and  why  Jean 
did  not  come  ? 

"  He  kissed  me,  and  said  that  Jean  wanted  to  take 
his  child  away  from  him.  And  I  asked  him — though  I 
remember  I  had  hardly  breath  to  do  it — what  he  had 
told  him? 


li)6  SEVEN  STORIES. 

"  1 1  told  him,'  said  papa,  *  that  if  Lucie  would  mar. 
ry  Jean,  and  Jean  would  marry  Lucie,  they  might  mar 
ry,  and  I  would  give  them  a  father's  blessing/ 

"  I  burst  into  tears,  and  my  father  took  me  in  his 
arms ;  perhaps  he  thought  I  was  so  sorry  to  lose  my 
sister — I  don't  know.  When  I  had  strength  to  go  to 
our  chamber,  I  threw  myself  into  Lucie's  arms  and 
cried  as  if  my  heart  would  break. 

"She  asked  me  what  it  meant?  I  said — '  I  love 
you,  Lucie  ! '  And  she  said — '  I  love  you,  Lisette  ! ' 

"  But  soon  I  found  that  Jean  had  sent  no  message — 
that  he  had  not  come — that  all  I  told  Lucie,  of  what  my 
father  had  said,  was  new  to  her  ;  and  she  cried  afresh  ; 
and  we  dared  say  nothing  to  her  of  Jean.  I  fancied 
how  it  was  ;  for  Jean's  father  was  a  proud  gentleman, 
and  would  never  make  a  second  request  of  such  frowr- 
geois  as  we.  Soon  we  heard  that  he  had  gone  away, 
and  that  he  had  taken  Jean  along  with  him.  1  longed 
to  follow — to  write  him  even  ;  but,  poor  Lucie  ! — I  was 
not  certain  but  he  might  come  back  to  claim  her.  Of 
ten  and  often  I  wandered  up  by  his  father's  old  country 
house,  and  I  asked  the  steward's  wife  how  he  was  look 
ing  when  he  went  away.  c  Oh,'  said  she,  ;  le  pauvre 
jeune  homme ;  he  was  so  sad  to  leave  his  home  ! ' 

"  And  I  thought  to  myself  bitterly, — did  this  make 
nil  his  sadness  ? 

"  A  whole  year  passed  by,  and  we  heard  nothing  of 


THE  CABRIOLET,  197 

him.  A  regiment  had  come  into  the  arrondissement^ 
»ad  a  young  officer  came  occasionally  to  see  us.  Now, 
Monsieur,  I  am  ashamed  to  tell  you  what  followed. 
Lucie  had  not  forgotten  Jean  :  and  I — God  knows  ! — 
had  not  forgotten  him.  But  papa  said  that  the  officer 
would  make  a  good  husband  for  me,  and  he  told  me  as 
much  himself.  I  did  not  disbelieve  him ;  but  I  did  not 
love  him  as  I  had  loved  Jean,  and  I  doubted  if  Jean 
would  come  back,  and  I  knew  not  but  he  would  come 
back  to  marry  Lucie,  though  I  felt  sure  that  he  loved 
me  better  than  Lucie.  So,  Monsieur,  it  happened  that 
I  married  the  young  officer,  and  became  a  soldier's  wife, 
and  in  a  month  went  away  from  my  old  home. 

"  But  that  was  not  the  worst,  Monsieur ;  before  I 
went,  there  came  a  letter  from  Paris  for  me,  in  Jean's 
own  writing." 

Madame  turned  her  head  again.  Even  the  postillion 
had  suffered  his  horses  to  get  into  a  dog-trot  jog,  that 
he  now  made  up  for  by  a  terrible  thwacking,  and  a 
pestilent  shower  of  oaths ;  partly,  perhaps,  to  deaden 
his  feelings. 

"  The  letter,"  said  madame,  going  on,  "  told  me 
how  he  had  loved  me,  how  his  father  had  told  him 
what  my  father  had  said ;  and  how  he  had  forbidden 
him  in  his  pride,  to  make  any  second  proposal ;  and 
how  he  had  gone  away  to  forget  his  griefs,  but  could 
not ;  and  he  spoke  of  a  time,  when  he  would  come  back 


198  SEVEN  STORIES. 

and  claim  me,  even  though  he  should  forget  and  leave 
his  father.  The  whole  night  I  cried  over  that  letter, 
but  never  showed  it  to  Lucie.  I  was  glad  that  I  was 
going  away  ;  but  I  could  not  love  my  husband. 

"  You  do  not  know  how  bitter  the  parting  was  for 
me ;  not  so  much  to  leave  my  father  and  Lucie,  and 
Jacques,  but  the  old  scenes  where  I  had  wandered  with 
Jean,  and  where  we  had  played  together,  and  where  he 
was  to  come  back  again  perhaps,  and  think  as  he  would 
of  me.  I  could  not  write  him  a  letter  even.  I  was 
young  then,  and  did  not  know  but  my  duty  to  my  hus 
band  would  forbid  it.  But  I  left  a  little  locket  he  had 
given  me,  and  took  out  his  hair,  and  put  in  place  of  it 
a  lock  of  my  own,  and  scratched  upon  the  back  with  a 
needle — '  Jean,  I  loved  you  ;  it  is  too  late  ;  I  am  mar 
ried  ;  J'en  pleurs  I '  And  I  handed  it  to  little  Jacques, 
and  made  him  promise  to  show  it  to  no  one,  but  to  hand 
to  Jean,  if  he  ever  came  again  to  Semur.  Then  I  kissed 
my  father,  and  my  sister,  and  little  Jacques  again  and 
again,  and  bid  them  all  adieu — as  well  as  I  could  for  my 
tears ;  I  have  never  been  in  Semur  since,  Monsieur." 

"  And  what  became  of  Jean?" 

"  You  know,"  continued  she,  "  that  I  could  not  love 
my  husband,  and  I  was  glad  we  were  going  far  away, 
where  I  hoped  I  might  forget  all  that  had  happened  at 
home  ;  but  God  did  not  so  arrange  it. 

"  We  were  staying  in  Montpelicr ;  you  have  been 


THE  CABRIOLET.  199 

in  Montpelier,  Monsieur,  and  will  remember  the  pretty 
houses  along  the  Rue  de  Paris  ;  in  one  of  them  we  were 
living.  Every  month  or  two  came  letters  from  Lucie — 
sad,  very  sad,  at  the  first — and  I  forgot  about  myself 
through  pity  of  her.  At  length  came  one  which  told 
me  that  Jean  had  come  back ;  and  it  went  on  to  say 
how  well  he  was  looking.  Poor  Lucie  did  not  know 
how  it  all  went  to  my  soul,  and  how  many  tears  her  let 
ters  cost  me. 

"  Afterward  came  letters  in  gayer  temper — still 
full  of  the  praises  of  Jean  ;  and  she  wondered  why  I  was 
not  glad  to  hear  so  much  of  him,  and  wondered  that  my 
letters  were  growing  so  gloomy.  Another  letter  came 
still  gayer,  and  a  postscript  that  cut  me  to  the  heart ; 
the  postscript  was  in  Jacques'  scrawling  hand,  and  sale! 
that  all  the  village  believed  that  Jean  was  to  marry  sis 
ter  Lucie.  '  We  shall  be  so  glad,'  it  said,  '  if  you  will 
come  home  to  the  wedding  ! ' 

"  Oh,  Monsieur,  I  had  thought  I  loved  Lucie.  I 
am  afraid  I  did  not.  I  wrote  no  answer ;  I  could 
not.  By-and-by  came  a  thick  letter  with  two  little  doves 
upon  the  seal.  I  went  to  my  room  and  barred  the  door, 
and  cried  over  it,  without  daring  to  open  it.  The  truth 
was  as  I  had  feared — Jean  had  married  Lucie.  Oh,  my 
feelings — my  bitter  feelings,  Monsieur  !  Pray  Heaven 
you  may  never  have  such  ! 

"  My  husband  grew  indignant  at  my  sadness,  and  I 


200  SEVEN  STORIES. 

disliked  him  more  and  more.  Again  we  changed  om 
quarters  to  the  mountains,  where  the  troops  had  been 
ordered,  and  for  a  very  long  time  no  letter  came  to  me 
from  home.  I  had  scarce  a  heart  to  write,  and  spent 
day  after  day  in  my  chamber.  We  were  five  years  along 
the  Pyrenees  ;  you  remember  the  high  mountains  about 
Pau,  and  the  snowy  tops  that  you  can  see  from  the 
houses ;  but  I  enjoyed  nothing  of  it  all.  By-and-by 
came  a  letter  with  a  black  seal,  in  the  straggling  hand 
of  my  poor  father,  saying  that  Jean  and  Lucie  had  gone 
over  the  sea  to  the  Isle  of  Mauritius,  and  that  little 
Jacques  had  sickened  of  a  fever  and  was  dead.  I 
longed  to  go  and  see  my  old  father ;  but  my  husband 
could  not  leave,  and  he  was  suspicious  of  me,  and 
would  not  suffer  me  to  travel  across  France  alone. 

"  So  I  spent  years  more — only  one  letter  coming  to 
me  in  all  that  time — whether  stopped  by  my  husband's 
orders  or  not  I  do  not  know.  At  length  he  was  ordered 
with  his  regiment  to  Chalons  sur  Marne ;  there  were 
old  friends  of  his  at  Chalons,  with  whom  he  is  stopping 
now.  "We  passed  through  Paris  and  I  saw  all  its  won 
ders  ;  yet  I  longed  to  get  toward  home.  At  length  we 
set  off  for  Chalons.  It  was  five  days  before  I  could 
get  my  husband's  leave  to  ride  over  to  my  old  town. 
I  am  afraid  he  has  grown  to  hate  me  now. 

"  You  see  that  old  Chateau  in  ruins,"  says  she. 
pointing  out  a  mossy  remnant  of  castle,  on  a  hillock  to 


THE  CABRL 


the  left — "  it  is  only  two  kilometres  from  Semur.  I  have 
been  there  often  with  Jean  and  Lucie,"  and  madame 
looks  earnestly,  and  with  her  whole  heart  in  her  eyes, 
at  the  tottering  old  ruin.  We  ask  the  postillion  the 
name,  and  jot  it  down  in  our  note-book. 

u  And  your  father  knows  nothing  of  your  return?" 

44 1  have  written  from  Chalons,"  resumed  madame, 
"  but  whether  he  be  alive  to  read  it,  I  do  not  know." 

And  she  begins  now  to  detect  the  cottages,  on  which 
in  this  old  country  ten  years  would  make  but  little  dif 
ference.  The  roofs  are  covered  over  with  that  dappled 
moss  you  see  in  Watelet's  pictures,  and  the  high  stone 
court-yards  are  gray  with  damp  and  age. 

"La  voila!"  at  length  exclaims  madame,  clapping 
her  hands  ;  and  in  the  valley  into  which  we  have  just 
turned,  and  are  now  crick-cracking  along  in  the  crazy 
old  cabriolet,  appears  the  tall  spire  of  Semur.  A  brown 
tower  or  two  flank  it,  and  there  is  a  group  of  gray 
roofs  mingled  with  the  trees. 

Madame  keeps  her  hands  clasped  and  is  silent. 

The  postillion  gives  his  hat  a  jaunty  air,  and  crosses 
himself  as  we  pass  a  church  by  the  way  ;  and  the  farm 
eries  pass  us  one  by  one  ;  then  come  the  paved  streets, 
and  the  pigs,  and  the  turbaned  women  in  sabots,  and 
boys'  eyes,  all  intent ;  and  thick  houses,  and  provincial 
shops. 

44  The  same  dear  old  town  of  Semur !  "  says  our  fe- 
13* 


202  SEVEN  STORIES. 

male  companion.  And  with  a  crack  and  a  rumble,  and 
a  jolt,  we  are  presently  at  the  door  of  the  inn. 

The  woman  runs  her  eye  hastily  over  the  inn  loun 
gers  ;  apparently  she  is  dissatisfied.  We  clamber  down 
and  assist  her  to  dismount. 

"  Shall  we  make  any  inquiries  for  her?  " 

"  OA,  Mon  Dieu!  fai  trop  de  peur!"  She  is 
afraid  to  ask  ;  she  will  go  see  ;  and  away  she  starts — 
turns — throws  back  her  veil — asks  pardon — "•  we  have 
been  so  kind  " — bids  God  bless  us — waves  her  hand 
and  disappears  around  an  angle  of  the  old  inn. 

'Tis  the  last  we  see  of  her ;  for,  in  ten  minutes  we 
are  rattling  away  toward  Dole  aud  the  Juras. 


SIXTH  STORY: 


THE    COUNT    PESARO 


SIXTH  STORT. 


The  Count  Pesaro. 

I  AM  living  in  a  garden,  in  the  middlo  of  the  water 
Old  arbors,  made  from  trellised  poles,  which  are 
blackened  with  storms  and  with  years,  stretch  down 
through  the  centre  of  this  garden,  and  are  covered  over 
with  the  interlacing  limbs  of  Lombard  grape-vines. 
At  the  end  of  this  arbor-walk — not,  it  is  true,  very  long, 
but  neatly  gravelled  and  cleanly  kept — is  a  low  pavilion, 
with  an  embowed  window  which  looks  out  upon  the 
Grand  Canal  of  Venice. 

A  painting  of  some  Venetian  artist,  who  lived  before 
the  garden  was  planted,  hangs  upon  the  wall  of  the  pa 
vilion,  and  receives  a  light, — on  one  side  subdued  by  the 
jutting  fragments  of  a  ruined  palace,  and  on  the  other 
reflected  brightly  from  the  green  surface  of  the  water. 

The  pavilion  is  built  in  the  angle  of  those  palace 


206  SEVEN  STORIES. 

walls  which  inclose  the  garden,  and  which  were  never 
raised  to  their  full  height.  They  offer,  in  their  broken 
and  half-ruined  state,  a  mournful  commentary  upon  the 
life  of  that  dissolute  republic  which  ended  suddenly  a 
half  century  ago  ;  since  which  time  no  stone  has  been 
added  to  the  palace  walls.  An  iron  paling,  of  na.sh  ap 
pearance,  swings  where  the  palace  doors  should  have 
hung.  The  windows  are  filled  with  mortar  and  brick, 
save  the  one  where  my  pavilion  looks  upon  the  water. 
The  huge  lion  heads  that  stand  out  here  and  there  along 
the  foundation  stones,  are  grimy  with  the  sea-weed  which 
the  salt  tide  feeds  :  and  what  should  have  been  the  court 
of  the  palace  is  given  up  to  the  culture  of  a  few  sour 
grapes  of  Lombardy,  and  to  the  morning  strolls  of  a 
stranger  from  a  republic  beyond  the  ocean. 

From  the  pavilion  window,  I  can  count  the  old 
homes  of  five  Doges  and  of  twenty  noble  Venetian  fam 
ilies  ;  but  there  is  no  family  of  either  Doge  or  noble  in 
any  of  them  now.  Two  of  the  grandest  are  turned 
into  lodging-houses  for  strangers  ;  the  upper  balcony — a 
richly-wrought  marble  balcony — of  the  palace  of  the 
most  noble  Ducal  family  of  the  Justiniani,  is  now  de 
corated  with  the  black  and  white  sign-board  of  my  late 
host,  Monsieur  Marseille,  keeper  of  the  Hotel  de  VEu- 
rope.  Another  grand  pile,  which  rises  just  opposite  to 
me,  is  filled  with  the  degenerate  officials  of  the  moulder 
ing  municipality  of  Venice.  I  see  them  day  by  day  saim- 


THE  COUNT  PESARO.  207 

tering  idly  at  the  windows,  or  strutting  with  vain  im 
portance  in  the  corridors  which  a  century  ago  echoed 
the  steps  of  very  noble  and  very  corrupt  women.  Still 
others  bear  over  the  rich  sculptured  cornices  of  their 
doors,  among  the  marble  masks  and  flowers,  the  painted 
double-headed  eagle  of  the  Emperor  Francis ;  and  the 
men  I  see  moving  with  a  stealthy  pace  over  the  marble 
stairs,  are  miserable  Italian  hirelings,  who  wear  the 
livery,  reverence  the  power,  and  chant  the  praises  of  their 
Austrian  master. 

All  day  long  the  gondolas  glide  back  and  forth  over 
the  green  water  of  the  canal — so  near,  that  I  can  distin 
guish  faces  under  the  sombre  canopies  of  the  boats,  and 
admire  the  neatly-gloved  hands  of  ladies,  or  the  martial 
air  of  our  military  rulers.  At  night,  too,  when  I  choose 
to  linger  with  the  blinds  unclosed,  I  can  see  the  lights 
trailing  from  far  down  by  the  Square  of  St.  Mark,  when 
no  sound  of  the  oars  is  heard ;  and  can  watch  their 
growing  glimmer,  and  presently  hear  the  distant  ripple, 
and  see  the  lanterns  shining  brighter  and  brighter,  and 
hear  the  oar  dip  nearer  and  nearer,  until  with  a  dash — 
a  blaze,  and  a  shadow  of  black — they  pass. 

The  bay  window  of  my  pavilion,  jutting  from  tlio 
palace  ruin,  has  marble  steps  leading  down  to  the  water. 
At  ten  o'clock  of  the  morning,  if  the  sun  is  bright,  ray 
gondolier,  Guiseppe,  is  moored  at  one  of  the  lions*  heads, 
in  his  black  boat.  A  half  hour's  easy  sail  along  the 


208  SEVEN  STORIES. 

path  of  the  Grand  Canal,  will  set  me  down  at  the  fool 
of  the  Rialto.  A  score  of  palaces  fling  their  shadows 
across  the  way  I  pass  over,  between  the  Rialto  and  the 
garden  court ;  and  a  score  more,  catch  the  sun  upon 
their  fronts,  and  reflect  it  dazzlingly.  But,  apart  from 
the  life  which  the  sun  and  the  water  lend  to  them,  they 
have  all  a  dead  look.  The  foundations  are  swayed  and 
cracked.  Gloomy-looking  shutters  of  rough  boards 
close  up  the  window-openings  of  sculptured  marble. 
Newly-washed  linen  is  hung  out  to  dry  upon  the  palace 
balconies. 

Even  the  scattered  noble  families  which  retain  the 
larger  piles  of  building  are  too  poor  and  powerless  to 
arrest  the  growing  decay,  or  to  keep  up  any  show  of 
state.  A  black  cockade  upon  the  hat  of  their  gondolier, 
with  a  faded  crimson  waistcoat  for  livery,  and  a  box  at 
the  Fenice  Theatre,  make  up  the  only  ostensible  signs 
of  a  vain  rank  and  of  an  expiring  fortune. 

If  the  whim  or  the  business  of  the  morning  lead  me 
in  an  opposite  direction,  a  few  strokes  of  the  oar  will 
carry  my  gondola  under  the  shadow  of  those  two  gran 
ite  columns  which  belong  to  every  picture  of  Venice, 
nnd  which  are  crowned  with  the  winged  lion  of  St. 
Mark,  and  the  patron  Saint  Theodore.  Here  is  the 
gathering-place  of  all  strangers  and  loiterers  ;  and  one 
may  wander  at  will  under  the  arcades  of  the  Ducal  Pal 
ace,  or  over  the  billowy  floor  of  the  cathedral  church. 


THE  COUNT  PESARO.  209 

But  there  is  a  tramping  of  feet  in  this  neighbor 
hood,  and  an  active  commerce  in  flowers  and  oranges, 
and  a  business-like  effrontery  in  lame  old  men,  who  serve 
as  valets-de-place,  that  fatigue  me — that  seem  altogether 
out  of  keeping  with  the  proper  gloom  and  mould  and 
slot  1 1  of  the  dying  city. 

My  more  frequent  excursions  are  in  another  quarter. 
Traversing  the  garden  arbor  of  which  I  have  spoken, 
and  passing  through  the  corridor  of  the  house  which 
skirts  the  garden,  I  find  myself  upon  the  edge  of  a  nar 
row  canal,  shaded  by  crumbling  houses,  which  are  in 
habited  by  a  ghost-like  people,  whom  you  see  gliding  in 
and  out  only  in  the  gray  of  the  morning  or  at  twilight. 
The  narrow  canal  has  a  foot- way  by  its  side,  along  which 
passes  an  occasional  bawling  fish-merchant,  who  carries 
his  stock  in  a  small  willow  crate  upon  his  head ;  cold- 
looking,  lean  women,  with  shawls  drawn  over  them  like 
cowls,  and  stooping  and  slip-shod,  sometimes  shuffle 
along  the  path,  with  cabbages  under  their  arms,  and  dis 
appear  down  one  of  the  dark  courts  which  open  on  the 
canal. 

I  think  there  must  be  a  school  in  the  neighborhood  ; 
for  not  unfrequently  a  bevy  of  boys  (a  very  rare  sight 
in  Venice)  passes  under  my  window ,  under  the  eye  of  a 
broad-hatted  priest  in  a  long  black  coat.  But  the  boys, 
I  have  observed,  are  sallow-faced,  arid  have  a  withered, 
mature  look,  as  if  they  had  grown  old  before  their  time 


210  SEVEN  STORIES. 

They  seem  to  Lave  inherited  a  part  of  the  decay  which 
belongs  to  the  desolate  city  ;  their  laugh,  as  it  comes  to 
my  ear,  is  very  hollow  and  vague,  with  none  of  the  rol 
licking  glee  in  it  which  is  bred  of  green  fields  and  sun 
shine. 

A  funeral,  on  the  contrary — when  it  passes,  as  it 
sometimes  has  done,  after  twilight,  with  priests  in  white 
capes,  and  candles  flaunting  a  yellow,  sickly  light  upon 
the  still  water  of  the  canal — seems  to  agree  with  the 
place  and  with  the  people.  The  sight  does  not  shock, 
•as  it  does  in  cities  which  are  alive  with  action  or  with 
sunshine  ;  but,  like  a  burst  of  laughter  at  a  feast,  the 
monotonous  funeral  chant  chimes  with  the  mournful 
habit  of  the  place,  and  death  seems  to  be  only  a  louder 
echo  of  the  life. 

A  little  distance  away,  there  is  abridge  which  crosses 
this  canal ;  a  dingy  alley — I  find,  at  its  end — conducts 
through  slumberous  houses  to  a  narrow  quay  and  a 
broad  sheet  of  water.  Beyond  the  water  lies  the  island 
of  Giudecca ;  between  which  and  the  quay  I  am  upon, 
lie  moored  the  greater  part  of  those  sea-going  craft 
which  supply  now  all  the  needs  of  the  port  of  Venice. 

Here  are  quaint  vessels  from  Chioggia,  a*  the  other 
end  of  the  Lagoon,  which  have  not  changed  their  fash 
ion  in  a  hundred  years.  They  have  the  same  high  peak 
and  stern  which  they  had  in  the  days  of  the  Doges ; 
and  a  painted  Virgin  at  the  bow  is  a  constant  prayer 


THE  COUNT  PESARO.  2U 

against  peril.  Here  are  clumsy  feluccas  from  Crete  and 
the  Ionian  islands,  with  Greek  sailors  half-clad,  who 
have  the  same  nut-brown  faces  and  lithe  limbs  you  see 
ia  old  pictures. 

The  canal  of  the  Giudecca  stretches  to  the  westward, 
dividing  the  island  of  the  same  name  from  the  body 
of  the  city,  and  then  loses  itself  in  the  wide,  lazy  sweep 
of  the  Lagoon ;  there,  you  see  little  isles  with  tall  bell- 
towers,  and  scattered  lateen-rigged  vessels,  and  square- 
armed  colliers  from  England,  and  low-lying  fields  of 
rushes — all  alike  seeming  to  float  upon  the  surface  of 
the  water. 

When  the  sun  is  near  its  setting,  you  cannot  ima 
gine  the  witching  beauty  of  this  scene  :  the  blue  moun 
tains  of  Treviso  rise  from  the  distant  edge  of  the  La 
goon  in  sharp,  pyramidal  forms  ;  they  grow  less  and 
less  in  size  as  they  sweep  to  the  south,  till  finally — where 
the  smooth  water  makes  the  horizon-line — you  can  see, 
five  miles  away,  the  trees  of  the  last  shore,  seeming  to 
rise  from  the  sea,  and  standing  with  all  their  lines  firm 
ly  and  darkly  drawn  against  a  bright  orange  sky. 

From  this  quay — a  favorite  walk  of  mine — as  from 
a  vessel  on  the  ocean,  I  see  the  sun  dying  each  night  in 
the  water.  Add  only  to  what  I  have  said  of  the  view  a 
warm,  purple  glow  to  the  whole  western  half  of  the 
heavens — the  long  shadow  of  a  ship  in  the  middle  dis 
tance,  and  the  sound  of  a  hundred  sweet-toned  vesper 


212  SE  VEN  STORIES. 

belL*  ringing  from  out  all  the  towers  of  Venice,  and 
floating,  and  mellowing,  and  dying  along  the  placid  sur 
face  of  the  sea — and  you  will  have  some  notion  of  a  quiet 
Venetian  evening. 

Upon  the  bridges  which  spring  with  a  light  marble 
arch  across  the  side  canals  are  grouped  the  figures  of 
loitering  gondoliers.  Their  shaggy  brown  coats,  with 
pointed  hoods,  their  tasselled  caps,  their  crimson  neck 
ties,  and  their  attitudes  of  a  lazy  grace,  as  they  lean 
against  the  light  stone  balustrades,  are  all  in  happy 
keeping  with  the  scene.  A  marching  company  of  priests, 
two  by  two,  with  their  broad  hats  nearly  touching, 
sometimes  passes  me  ;  and  their  waving  black  cloaks  stir 
the  air,  like  the  wings  of  ill-omened  birds.  A  lean  beg 
gar  who  has  been  sunning  himself  throughout  the  day 
in  the  lee  of  a  palace  wall,  steals  out  cautiously,  as  he 
sees  me  approach,  and  doffs  his  cap,  and  thrusts  forward 
his  hand,  wi  h  a  cringing  side-cast  of  the  head,  making 
an  inimitable  pantomime  of  entreaty  ;  and  a  coin  so  small 
that  I  am  ashamed  to  name  it,  brings  a  melodious  u  ben- 
eddto  "  on  my  head. 

I  have  come,  indeed,  to  know  every  face  which  makes 
its  appearance  along  the  quay  of  the  Giudecca.  A  beetle- 
browed  man,  with  ragged  children  and  a  slatternly  wife, 
has  lost  all  my  sympathy  by  his  perverse  constancy  in 
begging  and  in  asking  blessings.  A  dog  in  an  upper 
balcony,  which  barked  at  me  obstreperously  on  the  first 


THE  COUNT  PESARO.  213 

week  of  my  appearance,  subdued  his  bark  to  a  low  growl 
after  a  fortnight,  and  now  he  makes  only  an  inquiring 
thrust  of  his  nose  through  the  balcony  bars  ;  and,  having 
scented  an  old  acquaintance,  retires  with  quiet  gravity. 

Most  of  all,  I  have  remarked  an  old  gentleman 
whom  I  scarce  ever  fail  to  meet  at  about  the  vespei 
hour,  in  a  long  brown  overcoat,  of  an  antique  fashion, 
and  wearing  a  hat  which  must  have  been  the  mode  at 
least  forty  years  ago.  His  constant  companion  is  a 
young  woman,  with  a  very  sweet,  pale  face,  who  clings 
timidly  to  his  arm  ;  and  who,  like  her  protector,  is  clad 
always  in  a  sober-colored  dress  of  an  old  date.  Her 
features  ure  very  delicate,  and  her  hair,  like  that  of  all 
the  Venetian  women,  singularly  beautiful.  There  is  no 
look  of  likeness  between  them,  or  I  should  have  taken 
them  for  father  and  daughter.  They  seem  to  talk  but 
little  together  ;  and  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  the 
poor  girl  might  be  the  victim  of  one  of  those  savage 
marriages  of  Europe,  by  which  beauty  and  youth  are 
frequently  tied — for  some  reasons  of  family  or  property 
— to  decrepitude  and  age. 

Yet  the  old  gentleman  has  a  very  firm  step  and  a 
proud  look  of  the  eye,  which  he  keeps  fixed  steadfastly 
before  him,  scarce  deigning  to  notice  any  passer-by. 
The  girl,  too — or  perhaps  I  should  rather  say  the  woman 
— seems  struggling  to  maintain  the  same  indifference 
with  the  old  gentleman ;  and  all  her  side-looks  are  very 
furtive  and  subdued. 


2 1 4  KEY  EN  STORIES. 

They  walk  rapidly,  and  always  disappear  down  a 
narrow  court  which  is  by  the  farther  bridge  of  the  quay, 
and  which  leads  into  a  mouldering  quarter  of  the  city. 
They  speak  to  no  one  ;  they  do  not  even  salute,  so  far 
as  I  have  seen,  a  single  one  of  the  parish  priests  who 
glide  back  and  forth  upon  the  walk  by  the  Giudecca. 
Once  only,  a  gondolier,  with  a  flimsy  black  cockade,  who 
was  loitering  at  the  door  of  a  wine-shop,  lifted  his  ha* 
as  they  passed  in  a  very  respectful  manner  ;  but  neither 
man  or  woman  seemed  to  acknowledge  the  salutation. 

The  steadfast  look  of  the  old  gentleman,  and  the 
clinging  hold  of  the  young  woman  upon  his  arm,  have 
once  or  twice  induced  me  to  believe  him  blind.  But  his 
assured  step  upon  the  uneven  surface  of  the  stones,  and 
the  readiness  with  which  he  meets  the  stairs  of  the  suc 
cessive  bridges,  have  satisfied  me  that  it  cannot  be. 

I  am  quite  sure  there  is  some  mystery  about  the  cou 
ple — some  old  family  story,  perhaps,  of  wrong  or  of 
crime,  which,  in  its  small  way,  might  throw  a  light  upon 
the  tyranny  or  the  license  which  contributed  to  the  wreck 
of  the  Venetian  State.  I  have  hinted  as  much  to  my 
professor  of  languages — who  is  a  wiry  little  man,  with 
ferret  eyes — and  who  lias  promised  to  clear  up  whatevei 
mystery  may  lie  in  the  matter. 

I  shall  hardly  see  him,  however,  again — being  now 
Christmas  time — for  a  week  to  come. 

The   Christmas    season   drags   heavily   at  Venice. 


THE  COUNT  PE8ARO.  215 

The  people  may  possibly  be  good  Christians,  but  they 
arc  certainly  not  cheerful  ones.  The  air,  indeed,  has  a 
Christmas- like  cold  in  its  breath  ;  but  there  is  no  checl 
of  blazing  fires  to  quicken  one's  thankfulness,  and  to 
crackle  a  Christmas  prayer  for  the  bounties  of  the 
year. 

The  pinched  old  women  steal  through  the  dim  and 
narrow  pass-ways,  with  little  earthen  pots  of  live  coals 
— the  only  fire  which  ever  blesses  their  dismal  homes. 
No  frost  lies  along  the  fields  with  a  silvery  white  coat, 
stiffening  the  grass  tips,  and  making  eyes  sparkle  and 
cheeks  tingle ;  but  the  Venetian  winter  overtakes  you 
adrift — cutting  you  through  with  cold  winds,  that  howl 
among  the  ancient  houses — dampening  every  blast  with 
the  always  present  water,  and  bringing  cold  tokens 
from  the  land-winter,  in  huge  ice-cakes,  which  float 
wide  and  drearily  down  the  Lagoon. 

There  are  no  Christmas  songs,  and  no  Christmas 
trees.  Only  the  churches  light  up  their  chilly  vaults 
with  a  sickly  blaze  of  candles ;  and  the  devout  poor 
ones,  finding  comfort  in  the  air  softened  by  the  burning 
of  incense,  kneel  down  for  hours  together.  The  dust 
rests  thickly  on  the  tombs  of  nobles  and  of  Doges,  who 
lie  in  the  churches  ;  dark  pictures  of  Tintoretto  stare  at 
you  from  behind  the  altars ;  the  monotone  of  a  chant 
rises  in  a  distant  corner ;  beggars,  with  filthy  blankets 
draw  a  over  their  heads,  thrust  their  meagre  hands  al 


21 G  SEVEN  STORIES. 

you ;  and  a  chill  dampness  cleaves  to  you  until  you  gc 
out  into  the  sunlight  again. 

One  bright  streak  of  this  sunshine  lies  all  day  long 
upon  the  Eiva,*  which  stretches  from  the  ducal  palace 
to  the  arsenal.  Here  is  always  gathered  a  motley 
throng  of  soldiers,  of  jugglers,  of  Punch-players,  and 
of  the  picturesque  Turkish  and  Cretan  sailors.  Jostling 
through  this  crowd,  and  passing  the  southern  arcade  of 
the  Palace,  you  meet  at  mid-afternoon  of  the  Christmas 
season  with  troops  of  ladies,  who  lounge  up  and  down 
over  the  square  of  St.  Mark's  in  a  kind  of  solemn  saun 
ter,  that  I  am  sure  can  be  seen  nowhere  else.  Gone-by 
fashions  of  Paris  flame  upon  the  heads  of  pale-cheeked 
women,  and  weazen-faced  old  men  struggle  through 
the  mass,  with  anxious  and  doubting  daughters  clinging 
closely  to  their  arms. 

The  officers  of  the  occupying  army  stride  haughtily 
upon  the  Place,  eyeing  with  insolence  whatever  of  beauty 
is  to  be  seen,  and  showing  by  every  look  and  gesture 
that  they  are  the  masters,  and  the  others  the  menials. 

I  was  looking  on  this  strange  grouping  of  people 
not  long  ago,  upon  a  festal  day  of  the  Christmas  season, 
when  my  eye  fell  upon  the  old  gentleman  whom  I  had 
been  accustomed  to  see  upon  the  quiet  Eiva  of  the  Zat- 
tere  across  the  Grand  Canal.  His  pretty  meek-faced 
companion  was  beside  him.  They  paced  up  and  down 

*  A  Venetian  term  for  quay. 


THE  COUNT  PESARO.  211 

with  the  same  calm,  dispassionate  faces,  there  in  the  eye 
of  St.  Mark's  and  of  the  crowd,  which  they  had  worn 
in  the  view  of  the  Lagoon  and  of  the  silent,  solemn 
sunsets. 

It  is  true  they  had  now  gala  dresses ;  but  so  old,  so 
quaint,  that  they  seemed  to  belong,  as  they  really  did, 
to  an  age  gone  by.  The  old  gentleman  wore  a  bell- 
shaped  hat,  such  as  one  sees  in  the  pictures  of  the  close 
of  the  last  century,  and  its  material  was  not  of  the  shiny, 
silky  substance  of  the  present  day,  but  of  rich  beaver. 
The  lady,  too,  showed  a  face  delicate  as  before,  but  set 
off  with  a  coiffure  so  long  gone  by  that  its  very  age  re 
lieved  it  from  oddity,  and  made  me  think  I  was  looking 
at  some  sweet  picture  of  a  half  century  ago.  The  rich 
est  of  that  old  Venetian  lace,  which  provokes  always 
the  covetousness  of  travelling  ladies,  belonged  to  her 
costume,  and  agreed  charmingly  with  her  quiet  manner, 
and  with  the  forlorn  air  which  added  such  a  pleasing 
.mystery  to  the  couple. 

I  could  not  observe  that  they  seemed  nearer  to 
friends  or  to  kin  in  the  middle  of  the  crowd,  than  upon 
the  silent  quay  of  the  Zattere,  where  I  had  so  often  seen 
them  before.  They  appeared  to  be  taking  their  gala 
walk  in  memory  of  old  days,  utterly  neglectful  of  all 
around  them,  and  living,  as  it  were,  an  interior  life— 
sustained  only  by  association, — which  clung  to  the  gaunt 
shadow  of  the  Campanile,  and  to  the  brilliant  front  of 

San  Marco,  with  a  loving  and  a  pious  fondness. 
10 


218  SEVEN  ST011IES. 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  indeed,  that  those  of 
old  Venetian  blood  should  cherish  vain  and  proud  re 
grets.  They  are  living  in  the  shadows  of  a  great  past. 
An  inferior  race  of  creatures  occupy  the  places  of  the 
rich  and  the  powerful.  The  very  griffins  mock  at  them 
from  the  sculptured  walls,  and  everywhere  what  is  new 
is  dwarfed  by  contrast  with  the  old. 

I  followed  the  old  gentleman  after  a  while  into  the 
church  of  St.  Mark.  He  walked  reverently  through  the 
vestibule,  and  put  on  a  religious  air  that  startled  me. 
Passing  in  at  the  central  door,  and  slipping  softly  over 
the  wavy  floor  of  mosaics,  he  knelt,  with  his  companion, 
at  that  little  altar  of  the  Virgin  upon  the  left,  where  the 
lights  are  always  burning.  They  both  bowed  low,  and 
showed  a  fervor  of  devotion  which  is  but  rarely  seen  in 
either  Protestant  or  Popish  churches. 

I  felt  sure  that  a  great  grief  of  some  kind  rested  on 
them,  and  I  hoped  with  all  my  heart  that  the  Virgin 
might  heal  it.  Presently  they  raised  their  heads  to 
gether,  as  if  their  prayers  had  been  in  concert ;  they 
crossed  themselves ;  the  old  gentleman  cast  a  look  of 
mournful  admiration  over  the  golden  ceiling,  and  into 
the  obscure  depths  of  the  vaulted  temple, — beckoned  to 
his  companion,  and  turned  to  pass  out. 

There  was  something  inexpressibly  touching  in  the 
manner  of  both,  as  they  went  through  the  final  form  of 
devotion,  at  the  doorway.  '  It  seemed  to  me  that  thcj 


THE  COUNT  PESARO.  219 

saw  in  this  temple  hallowed  by  religion,  the  liveliest 
traces  of  the  ancient  Venetian  grandeur ;  here,  indeed, 
are  the  only  monuments  of  the  past  Venetian  splendor 
which  are  still  consecrated  to  their  old  service.  The 
Palace  has  passed  into  the  keeping  of  strangers,  and  idle 
soldiers,  talking  a  new  language,  loiter  under  the  arcades  ; 
the  basins  of  the  Arsenal  are  occupied  by  a  few  disabled 
vessels  of  foreign  build  ;  but  in  the  churches — the  same 
God  is  worshiped,  the  same  prayers  are  said,  and  the 
same  saints  rule,  from  among  the  urns  of  the  fathers 
the  devotions  of  the  children. 

I  could  not  forbear  following  the  old  gentleman  and 
his  companion,  at  a  respectful  distance,  through  the 
neighboring  alleys.  They  glided  before  me  like  some 
spectral  inhabitants  of  the  ancient  city,  who  had  gloried 
in  its  splendor,  and  who  had  come  back  to  mourn  over 
its  decay.  Without  a  thought  of  tracing  them  to  their 
home,  and  indeed  without  any  distinctness  of  intent, 
save  only  the  chase  of  a  phantom  thought,  I  followed 
them  through  alley  after  alley.  The  paving  stones  were 
damp  and  dark ;  the  cornices  of  the  houses  almost  met 
overhead.  The  murmur  of  the  voices  upon  the  Square 
of  St.  Mark's  died  away  in  the  distance.  The  echoes 
of  a  few  scattered  foot-falls  alone  broke  the  silence. 

Sometimes  I  lost  sight  of  them  at  an  angle  of  the 
narrow  street,  and  presently  came  again  in  full  view  of 
the  old  gentleman,  resolutely  striding  on.  I  cannot  tell 


220  SEVEN  STORIES. 

how  far  it  was  from  St.  Mark's,  when  they  stopped  at  a 
tall  doorway  in  the  Calle  Justiniana.  I  had  passed  that 
way  before,  and  had  remarked  an  ancient  bronze  knocker 
which  hung  upon  the  door,  of  rich  Venetian  sculpture. 
I  had  even  entertained  the  sacrilegious  thought  of  nego 
tiating  with  the  porter,  or  whoever  might  be  the  owner, 
for  its  purchase. 

A  shrill  voice  from  above  responded  to  the  summons 
of  the  old  gentleman,  and  with  a  click  the  latch  flew 
back  and  the  door  stood  ajar.  I  came  up  in  time  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  little  square  court  within.  It  was 
like  that  of  most  of  tfre  old  houses  of  Venice.  A  cistern 
curbing,  richly  wrought  out  of  a  single  block  of  Istrian 
marble,  stood  in  the  centre,  set  off  with  grotesque  heads 
of  cherubs  and  of  saints.  The  paving  stones  were 
green  and  mossy,  save  one  narrow  pathway,  which  led 
over  them  to  the  cistern.  The  stairway,  upon  one  side 
of  the  court,  was  high  and  steep ;  the  balustrade  was 
adorned  with  battered  figures  of  lions'  heads  and  of  grif 
fins  ;  at  the  landing-place  was  an  open  balcony,  from 
which  lofty  windows,  with  the  rich,  pointed  Venetian 
tops,  opened  upon  the  principal  suite  of  the  house.  But 
all  of  these  were  closed  with  rough  board  shutters,  here 
and  there  slanting  from  their  hinges,  and  showing  broken 
panes  of  glass,  and  the  disorder  of  a  neglected  apart 
ment.  A  fragment  of  a  faded  fresco  still  flamed  within 
the  balcony  between  the  windows. 


THE  COUNT  PESARO.  221 

Only  upon  the  floor  above  was  there  any  sign  of  life. 
There  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  white  curtain,  a  cat  doz 
ing  in  a  half-opened  wiidow,  and  of  a  pot  of  flowers. 

I  conjectured  how  it  was  :  proud  birth  and  poverty 
were  joined  in  the  old  man.  The  great  halls  of  the 
house,  which  were  once  festive,  were  utterly  deserted. 
The  sun,  which  reached  only  to  the  upper  rooms, 
brought  a  little  warmth  with  it.  No  fire  was  made  to 
drive  away  the  damps  below. 

A  few  pictures,  it  may  be,  remained  upon  the  walls 
of  the  closed  rooms,  the  work  of  esteemed  artists,  show 
ing  forth  some  scene  of  battle  or  of  state,  in  which  the 
founders  of  the  house  had  reaped  honors  from  the  Re 
public.  But  the  richly  carved  tables  and  quaint  old 
chairs,  had,  I  did  not  doubt,  slipped  away  one  by  one 
to  some  Jew  furniture-vender  living  near,  who  had 
preyed  with  fawning  and  with  profit  upon  the  old  gen 
tleman's  humbled  condition. 

The  daughter,  too — if  indeed  the  young  woman  were 
his  daughter — had,  I  doubted  not,  slipped  old  fragments 
of  Venetian  lace  into  h«r  reticule,  on  days  of  bitter  cold 
or  of  casual  illness,  to  exchange  against  some  little  com 
fort  for  the  old  gentleman. 

I  knew,  indeed,  that  in  this  way  much  of  the  rich 
cabinet-work,  for  which  the  Venetian  artisans  were  so 
famous  two  hundred  years  ago,  had  gone  to  supply  the 
modern  palaces  of  Russian  nobles  by  Moscow  and  No- 
vogorod. 


222  SEVEN  STORIES. 

Old  time  friendships,  I  knew,  too  often  went  to  wreck 
in  the  midst  of  such  destitution  ;  and  there  are  those  ot 
ancient  lineage  living  in  Venice  very  lonely  and  deserted, 
only  because  their  pride  forbids  that  a  friend  should 
witness  the  extent  of  their  poverty.  Yet  even  theso 
make  some  exterior  show  of  dignity ;  they  put  black 
cockades  upon  the  hats  of  their  servants,  or,  by  a  little 
judicious  management,  they  make  their  solitary  fag  of 
all  work  do  duty  in  a  faded  livery  at  the  stern  of  a  gon 
dola.  They  have,  moreover,  many  of  them,  their  little 
remnants  of  country  property,  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Oderzo  or  Padua,  where  they  go  to  economize  the  sum 
mer  months,  and  balance  a  carnival  season  at  the  Fenice, 
by  living  upon  vegetable  diet,  and  wearing  out  the  faded 
finery  of  the  winter. 

But  the  old  gentleman  about  whom  I  now  felt  my 
self  entertaining  a  deep  concern,  seemed  to  be  even  more 
friendless  and  pitiable  than  these.  He  appeared  to  com 
mune  only  with  the  phantoms  of  the  past ;  and  I  must 
say  that  I  admired  his  noble  indifference  to  the  degen 
erate  outcasts  around  him. 

My  ferret-eyed  Professor  made  his  appearance  to 
ward  the  close  of  the  Christmas  week,  in  a  very  hilari 
ous  humor.  He  is  one  of  those  happily  constituted 
creatures  who  never  thinks  of  to-morrow,  if  only  his 
dinner  of  to-day  is  secure.  I  had  contributed  to  his 
cheer  by  inviting  him  to  a  quiet  lunch  (if  quiet  can  bo 


THE  COUNT  PESARO.  .      223 

predicated  of  a  bustling  Italian  Osteria)  in  the  eating- 
rooms  of  the  Vapore.  I  had  a  hope  of  learning  some 
thing  from  him  in  respect  to  the  old  gentleman  of  the 
Zattere. 

I  recalled  my  former  mention  of  him,  and  ordered  a 
pint  of  Covegliano,  which  is  a  fiery  little  wine  of  a  very 
communicative  and  cheerful  aroma. 

"  Benissimo"  said  the  Professor,  but  whether  of  the 
wine  or  of  the  subject  of  my  inquiry  I  could  not  tell. 

I  related  to  him  what  I  had  seen  in  the  Christmas 
time  upon  the  Place,  and  described  the  parties  more 
fully. 

The  Professor  was  on  the  alert. 

I  mentioned  that  I  had  traced  them  to  a  certain  tall 
doorway  he  might  remember  in  the  Calle  Justiniana. 

"  Lo  cognosce S'  said  the  Professor,  twinkling  his 
eye.  "  It  is  the  Signor  Nobile  Pesaro :  poor  gentle 
man  ! "  and  he  touched  his  temple  significantly,  as  if  the 
old  noble  had  a  failing  in  his  mind. 

"  And  the  lady?"  said  I. 

"  La  sua  figliuola"  said  he,  filling  his  glass  ;  after 
which  he  waved  his  forefinger  back  and  forth  in  an  ex 
pressive  manner,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  poor  girl,  her  fate 
is  hard." 

With  that  he  filled  the  glass  again,  and  told  me  this 
story  of  the  Count  Pesaro  and  his  daughter. 


224  SEVEN  STORIES. 


PESARO  was  once  a  very  great  name  in  Venice, 
There  was  in  former  times  a  Doge  Pesaro,  and 
there  were  high  ministers  of  state,  and  ambassadors 
to  foreign  courts  belonging  to  the  house.  In  the  old 
church  of  the  Frari,  upon  the  further  side  of  the  Grand 
Canal,  is  a  painting  of  Titian's,  in  which  a  family  of 
the  Pesaro  appears  kneeling  before  the  blessed  Virgin. 
A  gorgeously-sculptured  palace  between  the  Rialto  and 
the  Golden  House  is  still  known  as  the  Pesaro  Palace  ; 
but  the  family  which  built  it,  and  which  dwelt  there, 
has  long  since  lost  all  claim  to  its  cherubs  and  griffins  ; 
only  the  crumbling  mansion  where  lives  the  old  Count 
and  his  daughter  now  boasts  any  living  holders  of  the 
Pesaro  name. 

These  keep  mostly  upon  the  topmost  floor  of  the 
house,  where  a  little  sunshine  finds  its  way,  and  plays 
hospitably  around  the  flower-pots  which  the  daughter 
has  arranged  upon  a  ledge  of  the  window.  Below — 
as  I  had  thought — the  rooms  are  dark  and  dismal.  The 
rich  furniture  which  belonged  to  them  once  is  gone — 
only  a  painting  or  two,  by  famous  Venetian  artists,  now 
hang  upon  the  walls.  They  are  portraits  of  near  rela 
tions,  and  the  broken  old  gentleman,  they  say,  lingers 
for  hours  about  them  in  gloomy  silence. 


THE  COUNT  PESARO.  225 

So  long  ago  as  the  middle  of  the  last  century  the 
family  had  become  small,  and  reduced  in  wealth.  The 
head  of  the  house,  however,  was  an  important  member 
of  the  State,  and  was  suspected  (for  such  things  were 
never  known  in  Venice)  to  have  a  voice  in  the  terrible 
Council  of  Three. 

This  man,  the  Count  Giovanni  Pesaro,  whose  man 
ner  was  stern,  and  whose  affections  seemed  all  of  them 
to  have  become  absorbed  in  the  mysteries  of  the  State, 
was  a  widower.  There  were  stories  that  even  the 
Countess  in  her  life-time  had  fallen  under  the  suspicions 
of  the  Council  of  Inquisition,  and  that  the  silent  hus 
band  either  could  not  or  would  not  guard  her  from  the 
cruel  watch  which  destroyed  her  happiness  and  short 
ened  her  days. 

She  left  two  sons,  Antonio  and  Enrico.  By  a  rule 
of  the  Venetian  State  not  more  than  one  son  of  a  noble 
family  was  allowed  to  marry,  except  their  fortune  was 
great  enough  to  maintain  the  dignity  of  a  divided  house 
hold.  The  loss  of  Candia  and  the  gaming-tables  of  the 
Ridotto  had  together  so  far  diminished  the  wealth  of  the 
Count  Pesaro,  that  Antonio  alone  was  privileged  to 
choose  a  bride,  and  under  the  advice  of  a  State  which 
exercised  a  more  than  fatherly  interest  in  those  matters 
he  was  very  early  betrothed  to  a  daughter  of  the  Con- 
tarini. 

But  Antonio  wore  a  careless  and  dissolute  habit  of 
10* 


226  SEVEN  STORIES. 

life  ;  lie  indulged  freely  in  the  licentious  intrigues  of 
Venice,  and  showed  little  respect  for  the  claims  which 
bound  him  to  a  noble  maiden,  whom  he  had  scarcely 
seen. 

Enrico,  the  younger  son,  destined  at  one  time  for 
the  Church,  had  more  caution  but  far  less  generosity  in 
his  nature ;  and  covering  his  dissoluteness  under  the 
mask  of  sanctity,  he  chafed  himself  into  a  bitter  jealousy 
of  the  brother  whose  privileges  so  far  exceeded  his  own. 
Fra  Paolo,  his  priestly  tutor  and  companion,  was  a  monk 
of  the  order  of  Franciscans,  who,  like  many  of  the  Ve 
netian  priesthood  in  the  latter  days  of  the  oligarchy, 
paid  little  heed  to  his  vows,  and  used  the  stole  and  the 
mask  to  conceal  the  appetites  of  a  debased  nature. 
With  his  assistance  Enrico  took  a  delight  in  plotting  the 
discomfiture  of  the  secret  intrigues  of  his  brother,  and 
in  bringing  to  the  ears  of  the  Contarini  the  scandal  at 
taching  to  the  affianced  lover  of  their  noble  daughter. 

Affairs  stood  in  this  wise  in  the  ancient  house  of 
Pesaro  when  (it  was  in  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth 
century)  one  of  the  last  royal  ambassadors  of  France 
established  himself  in  a  palace  near  to  the  church  of 
San  Zaccaria,  and  separated  only  by  a  narrow  canal 
from  that  occupied  by  the  Count  Pesaro. 

The  life  of  foreign  ambassadors,  and  most  of  all  of 
those  accredited  from  France,  was  always  jealously 
watched  in  Venice,  and  many  a  householder  who  was  so 


THE  COUNT  PESARO.  227 

unfortunate  as  to  live  in  the  neighborhood  of  an  ambas 
sador's  residence  received  secret  orders  to  quit  his 
abode,  and  only  found  a  cause  in  its  speedy  occupatiou 
by  those  masked  spies  of  the  Republic  who  passed  se 
cretly  in  and  out  of  the  Ducal  Palace. 

The  Inquisition,  however,  had  its  own  reasons  for 
leaving  the  Pesaro  family  undisturbed.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  design  of  the  mysterious  powers  of  the  State  to 
embroil  the  house  of  Pesaro  in  criminal  correspondence 
with  the  envoy  of  France  ;  perhaps  Fra  Paolo,  who  had 
free  access  to  the  Pesaro  Palace,  was  a  spy  of  St. 
Mark's ;  or  perhaps  (men  whispered  it  in  trembling) 
the  stern  Count  Pesaro  himself  held  a  place  in  the  terri 
ble  Council  of  Three. 

The  side  canals  of  Venice  are  not  wide,  and  looking 
across,  where  the  jealous  Venetian  blinds  do  not  forbid 
the  view,  one  can  easily  observe  the  movements  of  an 
opposite  neighbor.  Most  of  the  rooms  of  the  palace  of 
the  ambassador  were  carefully  screened ;  but  yet  the 
water-door,  the  grand  hail  of  entrance,  and  the  marble 
stairway  were  fully  exposed,  and  the  quick  syes  of  An 
tonio  and  Enrico  did  not  fail  to  notice  a  lithe  figure, 
which  from  day  to  day  glided  over  the  marble  steps,  or 
threw  its  shadow  across  the  marble  hall. 

Blanche  was  the  only  daughter  of  the  ambassador, 
and  besides  her  there  remained  to  him  no  family.  She 
had  just  reached  that  age  when  the  romance  of  life  is 


228  SEVEN  STORIES. 

strongest ;  and  the  music  stealing  over  the  water  from 
floating  canopies,  the  masked  figures  passing  like  phan 
toms  under  the  shadow  of  palaces,  and  all  the  license 
and  silence  of  Venice,  created  for  her  a  wild,  strange 
charm,  both  mysterious  and  dangerous.  The  very 
secrecy  of  Venetian  intrigues  contrasted  favorably  in 
her  romantic  thought  with  the  brilliant  profligacy  of  the 
court  of  Versailles. 

Nor  was  her  face  or  figure  such  as  to  pass  unnoticed 
even  among  the  most  attractive  of  the  Venetian  beau 
ties.  The  brothers  Pesaro,  wearied  of  their  jealous 
strife  among  the  masked  intrigantes  who  frequented  the 
tables  of  the  Ridotto,  were  kindled  into  wholly  new 
endeavor  by  a  sight  of  the  blooming  face  of  the  West 
ern  stranger. 

The  difficulties  which  hedged  all  approach,  served 
here  (as  they  always  serve)  to  quicken  ingenuity  and  to 
multiply  resources.  The  State  was  jealous  of  all  com 
munication  with  the  families  of  ambassadors  ;  marriage 
with  an  alien,  on  the  part  of  a  member  of  a  noble  family, 
was  scrupulously  forbidden.  Antonio  was  already  be 
trothed  to  the  daughter  of  a  noble  house  which  never 
failed  of  means  to  avenge  its  wrongs.  Enrico,  the 
younger,  was  in  the  eye  of  the  State  sworn  to  celibacy 
and  to  the  service  of  the  Church. 

But  the  bright  eyes  of  Blanche,  and  the  piquancy  of 
her  girlish,  open  look,  were  stronger  than  the  ties  of  a 
forced  betrothal,  or  the  mockery  of  monastic  bonds. 


THE  COUNT  PESARO.  229 

Music  from  unseen  musicians  stole  at  night  through 
the  narrow  canal  where  rose  the  palace  of  the  Pesaro. 
Flowers  from  unseen  hands  were  floated  at  morning 
upon  the  marble  steps  upon  which  the  balconies  of  the 
Pesaro  Palace  looked  down  ;  and  always  the  eager  and 
girlish  Blanche  kept  strict  watch  through  the  kindly 
Venetian  blinds  for  the  figures  which  stole  by  night  over 
the  surface  of  the  water,  and  for  the  lights  which  glim 
mered  in  the  patrician  house  that  stood  over  against  the 
palace  of  her  father. 

A  French  lady,  moreover,  brought  with  her  from 
her  own  court  more  liberty  for  the  revels  of  the  Ducal 
Palace,  and  for  the  sight  of  the  halls  of  the  Ridotto, 
than  belonged  to  the  noble  maidens  of  Venice.  It  was 
not  strange  that  the  Pesaro  brothers  followed  her 
thither,  or  that  the  gondoliers  who  attended  at  the  doors 
of  the  ambassador  were  accessible  to  the  gold  of  the 
Venetian  gallants. 

In  all  his  other  schemes  Enrico  had  sought  merely 
to  defeat  the  intrigues  of  Antonio,  and  to  gratify  by 
daring  and  successful  gallantries  the  pride  of  an  offended 
brother,  and  of  an  offcast  of  the  State.  But  in  the 
pursuit  of  Blanche  there  was  a  new  and  livelier  im 
pulse.  His  heart  was  stirred  to  a  depth  that  had  nevei 
before  been  reached  ;  and  to  a  jealousy  of  Antonio  waw 
now  added  a  defiance  of  the  State,  which  had  shorn 
him  of  privilege,  and  virtually  condemned  him  to  an 
aimless  life. 


230  SEVEN  STORIES. 

But  k  Enrico  was  the  more  cautious  and  discreet, 
Antonio  was  the  more  bold  and  daring.  There  never 
was  a  lady  young  or  old,  French  or  Venetian,  who  did 
not  prefer  boldness  to  watchfulness,  and  audacity  to  cau 
tion.  And  therefore  it  was  that  Enrico — kindled  into  a 
new  passion  which  consumed  all  the  old  designs  of  his 
life — lost  ground  in  contention  with  the  more  adventur 
ous  approaches  of  Antonio. 

Blanche,  with  the  quick  eye  of  a  woman,  and  from 
the  near  windows  of  the  palace  of  the  ambassador,  saw 
the  admiration  of  the  heirs  of  the  Pesaro  house,  and 
looked  with  the  greater  favor  upon  the  bolder  adventures 
of  Antonio.  The  watchful  eyes  of  Enrico  and  of  the 
masked  Fra  Paolo,  in  the  gatherings  of  the  Ducal  hall 
or  in  the  saloons  of  the  Ridotto,  were  not  slow  to  ob 
serve  the  new  and  the  dangerous  favor  which  the  senior 
heir  of  the  Pesaro  name  was  winning  from  the  stranger 
lady. 

"  It  is  well ; "  said  Enrico,  as  he  sat  closeted  with  his 
saintly  adviser  in  a  chamber  of  the  Pesaro  Palace,  "the 
State  will  never  permit  an  heir  of  a  noble  house  to  wed 
with  the  daughter  of  an  alien ;  the  Contarini  will  never 
admit  this  stain  upon  their  honor.  Let  the  favor  which 
Blanche  of  France  shows  to  Antonio  be  known  to  the 
State,  and  Antonio  is " 

"  A  banished  man,"  said  the  Fra  Paolo,  softening 
the  danger  to  the  assumed  feais  of  the  brother. 


THE  COUNT  PESARO.  231 

"  And  what  then  !  "  pursued  Enrico  doubtfully. 

"  And  then  the  discreet  Enrico  attains  to  the  rights 
and  privileges  of  his  name." 

"And  Blanche!" 

"  You  know  the  law  of  the  State,  my  son." 

"Abase  law!" 

"  Not  so  loud,"  said  the  cautious  priest ;  "  the  law 
has  its  exceptions.  The  ambassador  is  reputed  rich. 
If  his  wealth  could  be  transferred  to  the  State  of  Venice 
all  would  be  well." 

"  It  is  worth  the  trial,"  said  Enrico  ;  and  he  pressed 
a  purse  of  gold  into  the  hand  of  the  devout  Fra  Paolo. 


II. 


THE  three  Inquisitors  of  State  were  met  in  their 
chamber  of  the  Ducal  Palace.  Its  floor  was  of  al 
ternate  squares  of  black  and  white  marble,  and  its  walls 
tapestried  with  dark  hangings  set  off  with  silver  fringe. 
They  were  examining,  with  their  masks  thrown  aside, 
the  accusations  which  a  servitor  had  brought  in  from 
the  Lion's  Mouth,  which  opened  in  the  wall  at  the  head 
of  the  second  stairway. 

Two  of  the  inquisitors  were  dressed  in  black,  and 
the  third,  who  sat  between  the  others — a  tall,  stern  man 
• — was  robed  in  crimson.  The  face  of  the  last  grew 
troubled  as  his  eye  fell  upon  a  strange  accusation,  affect' 


232  SEVEN  STORIES. 

ing  his  honor,  and  perhaps  his  own  safety.  For  even 
this  terrible  council-chamber  had  its  own  law  among  its 
members,  and  its  own  punishment  for  indiscretioa. 
More  than  once  a  patrician  of  Venice  had  disappeared 
suddenly  from  the  eyes  of  men,  and  a  mysterious  mes 
sage  came  to  the  Great  Council  that  a  seat  was  vacant 
in  the  chamber  of  the  Inquisition. 

The  accusation  which  now  startled  the  member  of 
the  Council  was  this  : 

"  Let  the  State  beware ;  the  palace  of  Pesaro  is 
very  near  to  the  palace  of  France  ! 

u  ONE    OF    THE    CONTARINI." 

The  Count  Pesaro  (for  the  inquisitor  was  none 
other)  in  a  moment  collected  his  thoughts.  He  had  re 
marked  the  beautiful  daughter  of  the  ambassador ;  he 
knew  of  the  gallantries  which  filled  the  life  of  his  son 
Antonio  ;  he  recognized  the  jealousy  of  the  Contarini. 

But  in  the  members  of  the  fearful  court  of  Venice 
no  tie  was  recognized  but  the  tie  which  bound  them  to 
the  mysterious  authority  of  the  State.  The  Count  Pe 
saro  knew  well  that  the  discovery  of  any  secret  inter 
course  with  the  palace  of  the  ambassador  would  be  fol 
lowed  by  the  grave  punishment  of  his  son ;  he  knew 
that  any  conspiracy  with  that  son  to  shield  him  from  the 
State  would  bring  the  forfeit  of  his  life.  Yet  the  In 
quisitor  said,  "  Let  the  spies  be  doubled?" 

And  the  spies  were  doubled  ;  but  the  father,  more 


THE  COUNT  PESARO.  233 

watchful  and  wakeful  than  all,  discovered  that  it  was 
not  one  son  only,  but  both,  who  held  guilty  communica 
tion  with  the  servitors  of  the  ambassador's  palace.  There 
was  little  hope  that  it  would  long  escape  the  knowledge 
of  the  Council.  But  the  Count  anticipated  their  action, 
by  sacrificing  the  younger  to  the  elder ;  the  gondolier 
of  Enrico  was  seized,  and  brought  to  the  chamber  of 
torture. 

The  father  could  not  stay  the  judgment  which  pro 
nounced  the  exile  of  the  son,  and  at  night  Enrico  was 
arraigned  before  the  three  inquisitors :  the  masks  con 
cealed  his  judges ;  and  the  father  penned  the  order  by 
which  he  was  conveyed,  upon  a  galley  of  the  State,  to 
perpetual  exile  upon  the  island  of  Corfu. 

The  rigor  of  the  watch  was  now  relaxed,  and  An 
tonio,  fired  by  the  secret  and  almost  hopeless  passion 
which  he  had  reason  to  believe  was  returned  with  equal 
fervor,  renewed  his  communications  in  the  proscribed 
quarter.  A  double  danger,  however,  awaited  him. 
The  old  and  constant  jealousy  of  France  which  existed 
in  the  Venetian  councils  had  gained  new  force  ;  all  in 
tercourse  with  her  ambassador  was  narrowly  watched. 

Enrico,  moreover,  distracted  by  the  failure  of  a 
forged  accusation  which  had  reacted  to  his  own  disad 
vantage,  had  found  means  to  communicate  with  the 
scheming  Fra  Paolo.  The  suspicions  of  the  Contarini 
family  were  secretly  directed  against  the  neglectful  An- 


234  SEVEN  STORIES. 

tonio.  His  steps  were  dogged  by  the  spies  of  a  power 
ful  and  revengeful  house.  Accusations  again  found 
their  way  into  the  Lion's  Mouth.  Proofs  were  too 
plain  and  palpable  to  be  rejected.  The  son  of  Fesaro 
had  offended  by  disregarding  engagements  authorized 
and  advised  by  the  State.  He  had  offended  in  projecting 
alliance  with  an  alien ;  he  had  offended  in  holding 
secret  communication  with  the  household  of  a  foreign 
ambassador. 

The  offence  was  great,  and  the  punishment  immi 
nent.  An  inquisitor  who  alleged  excuses  for  the  crimes 
of  a  relative  was  exposed  to  the  charge  of  complicity. 
He  who  wore  the  crimson  robe  in  the  Council  of  the 
Inquisition  was  therefore  silent.  The  mask,  no  less 
than  the  severe  control  which  every  member  of  the 
secret  council  exerted  over  his  milder  nature,  con 
cealed  the  struggle  going  on  in  the  bosom  of  the  old 
Count  Fesaro.  The  fellow-councillors  had  already  seen 
the  sacrifice  of  one  son ;  they  could  not  doubt  his  con- 
Bent  to  that  of  the  second.  But  the  offence  was  now 
greater,  and  the  punishment  would  be  weightier. 

Antonio  was  the  last  scion  of  the  noble  house  of 
which  the  inquisitor  was  chief,  and  the  father  triumphed 
at  length  over  the  minister  of  State  ;  yet  none  in  the 
secret  Council  could  perceive  the  triumph.  None  knew 
better  than  a  participant  in  that  mysterious  power  which 
ruled  Venice  by  terror,  how  difficult  would  be  an} 
escape  from  its  condemnation. 


THE  COUNT  PESARO.  235 


in. 


IT  was  two  hours  past  midnight,  and  the  lights  had 
gone  out  along  the  palace-windows  of  Venice.  Tho 
Count  Pesaro  had  come  back  from  the  chamber  of  the 
Council ;  but  there  were  ears  that  caught  the  fall  of  his 
step  as  he  landed  at  his  palace  door  and  passed  to  his 
apartment.  Fra  Paolo  had  spread  the  accusations 
which  endangered  the  life  of  Antonio,  and,  still  an  in 
mate  of  the  palace,  he  brooded  over  his  schemes. 

He  knew  the  step  of  the  Count ;  his  quick  ear 
traced  it  to  the  accustomed  door.  Again  the  step 
seemed  to  him  to  retrace  the  corridor  stealthily,  and  to 
turn  toward  the  apartment  of  Antonio.  The  watchful 
priest  rose  and  stole  after  him.  The  corridor  was  dark  ; 
but  a  glimmer  of  the  moon,  reflected  from  the  canal, 
showed  him  the  tall  figure  of  the  Count  entering  the 
door  of  his  son. 

Paternal  tenderness  had  not  been  characteristic  of 
the  father,  and  the  unusual  visit  excited  the  priestly  cu 
riosity.  Gliding  after,  he  placed  himself  by  the  cham 
ber,  and  overheard — what  few  ever  heard  in  those  days 
in  Venice — the  great  Inquisitor  of  State  sink  to  the 
level  of  a  man  and  of  a  father. 

"  My  son,"  said  the  Count,  after  the  first  surprise 
of  the  sleeper  was  over,  "  you  have  offended  againsl  the 


236  SEVEN  STORIES. 

State  ;  "  and  he  enumerated  the  charges  which  had  come 
before  the  Inquisition. 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Antonio. 

"  The  State  never  forgets  or  forgives,"  said  the 
Count. 

"  Never,  when  they  have  detected,"  said  Antonio. 

"  They  know  all,"  said  the  father. 

"Who  know  all?"  asked  Antonio  earnestly. 

"  The  Council  of  Three." 

"You  know  it?" 

The  Count  stooped  to  whisper  in  his  ear. 

Antonio  started  with  terror  :  he  knew  of  the  popular 
rumor  which  attributed  to  his  father  great  influence  ID 
the  State,  but  never  until  then  did  the  truth  come  home 
to  him,  that  he  was  living  under  the  very  eye  of  one  of 
that  mysterious  Council,  whose  orders  made  even  the 
Doge  tremble. 

"  Already,"  pursued  the  Count,  "  they  determine 
your  punishment :  it  will  be  severe  ;  how  severe  I  can 
not  tell ;  perhaps " 

"Banishment?" 

"  It  may  be  worse,  my  son  ;  "  and  the  Count  was 
again  the  father  of  his  child,  folding  to  his  heart,  perhaps 
for  the  last  time,  what  was  dearer  to  him  now  than  the 
honor  or  the  safety  of  the  State. 

But  it  was  not  for  tearful  sympathy  only  that  the 
Count  had  made  this  midnight  visit.  There  remained 


THE  COUNT  PESARO.  237 

a  last  hope  of  escape.  The  arrest  of  Antonio  might 
follow  in  a  day,  or  in  two.  Meantime  the  barges  of  the 
State  were  subject  to  orders  penned  by  either  member 
of  the  Council. 

It  was  arranged  that  a  State  barge  should  be  sent 
to  receive  Antonio  upon  the  following  night,  to  convey 
him  a  captive  to  the  Ducal  Palace.  As  if  to  avoid  ob 
servation,  the  barge  should  be  ordered  to  pass  by  an 
unfrequented  part  of  the  city.  The  sbirri  of  the  quar 
ter  should  receive  counter  orders  to  permit  no  boat  to 
pass  the  canals.  In  the  delay  and  altercation  Antonio 
should  make  his  way  to  a  given  place  of  refuge,  where 
a  swift  gondola  (he  would  know  it  by  a  crimson  pen 
nant  at  the  bow)  should  await  him,  to  transport  the 
fugitive  beyond  the  Lagoon. 

His  own  prudence  would  command  horses  upon  the 
Padua  shore,  and  escape  might  be  secured.  Further 
intercourse  with  the  Count  would  be  dangerous,  and 
open  to  suspicion ;  and  father  and  son  bade  adieu — it 
might  be  forever. 

The  priest  slipped  to  his  lair,  in  his  corner  of  the 
wide  Pesaro  Palace ;  and  the  Count  also  went  to  such 
repose  as  belongs  to  those  on  whom  rest  the  cares  and 
the  crimes  of  empire. 

A  day  more  only  in  Venice,  for  a  young  patrician 
whose  gay  life  had  made  thirty  years  glide  fast,  was 
very  short.  There  were  many  he  feared  to  leave  ,*  anjj 


238  SEVEN  STORIES. 

there  was  one  ha  dared  not  leave.  The  passion,  thai 
grew  with  its  pains,  for  the  fair  Blanche,  had  ripened 
into  a  tempest  of  love.  The  young  stranger  had  yielded 
to  its  sway ;  and  there  lay  already  that  bond  between 
them  which  even  Venetian  honor  scorned  to  undo. 

In  hurried  words,  but  with  the  fever  of  his  feelings 
spent  on  the  letter,  he  wrote  to  Blanche.  He  told  her 
of  his  danger,  of  the  hopelessness  of  his  stay,  of  the 
punishment  that  threatened.  He  claimed  that  sacrifice 
of  her  home  which  she  had  already  made  of  her  heart. 
Her  oarsmen  were  her  slaves.  The  Lagoon  was  not  so 
wide  as  the  distance  which  a  day  might  place  between 
them  forever.  He  prayed  her  as  she  loved  him,  and  by 
the  oaths  already  plighted  upon  the  Venetian  waters,  to 
meet  him  upon  the  further  shore  toward  Padua.  He 
asked  the  old  token,  from  the  window  of  the  palace  op 
posite,  which  had  given  him  promise  in  days  gone. 

The  keen  eyes  even  of  Fra  Paolo  did  not  detect  the 
little  crimson  signal  which  hung  on  the  following  day 
from  a  window  of  the  palace  of  the  ambassador :  but 
'.he  wily  priest  was  not  inactive.  He  plotted  the  seizure 
and  ruin  of  Antonio,  and  the  return  of  his  protector 
Enrico.  An  accusation  was  drawn  that  day  from  the 
Lion's  Mouth  without  the  chamber  of  the  Inquisition, 
which  carried  fear  into  the  midst  of  the  Council. 

"  Let  Ihe  Three  beware ! "  said  the  accusation ; 
"  true  men  are  banished  from  Venice,  and  the  guilty 


THE  COUNT  1>ESARO.  239 

escape.  Enri  ;o  Pesaro  languishes  in  Corfu  ;  and  An 
tonio  (if  traitorous  counsels  avail  him)  escapes  this 
night. 

"  Let  the  Council  look  well  to  the  gondola  with  the 
crimson  pennant,  which  at  midnight  crosses  to  the  Pa 
dua  shores ! " 

The  inquisitors  wore  their  masks ;  but  there  was 
doubt  and  distrust  concealed  under  them. 

"  If  treason  be  among  us,  it  should  be  stayed  speed 
ily,"  said  one. 

And  the  rest  said,  "  Amen  !  " 

Suspicion  fell  naturally  upon  the  councillor  who  wore 
the  crimson  robe ;  the  doors  were  cautiously  guarded ; 
orders  were  given  that  none  should  pass  or  repass,  were 
it  the  Doge  himself,  without  a  joint  order  of  the  Three. 
A  State  barge  was  despatched  to  keep  watch  upon  the 
Lagoon  ;  and  the  official  of  the  Inquisition  bore  a  special 
commission.  The  person  of  the  offender  was  of  little 
importance,  provided  it  could  be  known  through  what 
channel  he  had  been  warned  of  the  secret  action  of  the 
Great  Council.  It  was  felt,  that  if  their  secrecy  was 
once  gone,  their  mysterious  power  would  be  at  an  end. 
The  Count  saw  his  danger  and  trembled. 

The  lights  (save  one  in  the  chamber  where  Fra  Pa 
olo  watched)  had  gone  out  in  the  Pesaro  Palace.  The 
orders  of  the  father  were  faithfully  observed.  The  refuge 
was  gained ;  and  in  the  gondola  with  the  crimson  pen* 


240  &EVEX  STORIES. 

naiit,  with  oarsmen  who  pressed  swiftly  toward  the 
Padua  shore,  Antonio  breathed  freely.  Venice  was  left 
behind ;  but  the  signal  of  the  opposite  palace  had  not 
been  unnoted,  and  Blanche  would  meet  him  and  cheer 
his  exile. 

Half  the  Lagoon  was  passed,  and  the  towers  of  St. 
Mark  were  sinking  upon  the  level  sea,  when  a  bright 
light  blazed  up  in  their  wake.  It  came  nearer  and 
nearer.  Antonio  grew  fearful. 

He  bade  the  men  pull  lustily.  Still  the  strange 
boat  drew  nearer  ;  and  presently  the  fiery  signal  of  St. 
Mark  flamed  upon  the  bow.  It  was  a  barge  of  the 
State.  His  oarsmen  were  palsied  with  terror. 

A  moment  more  and  the  barge  was  beside  them  ;  a 
masked  figure,  bearing  the  symbols  of  that  dreadful 
power  which  none  might  resist  and  live,  had  entered  the 
gondola.  The  commission  he  bore  was  such  as  none 
might  refuse  to  obey. 

The  fugitive  listened  to  the  masked  figure 

ic  To  Antonio  Pesaro — accused  justly  of  secret  deal 
ings  with  the  ambassadors  of  France,  forgetful  of  his 
oaths  and  of  his  duty  to  the  State,  and  condemned 
therefore  to  die — be  it  known  that  the  only  hope  of 
escape  from  a  power  which  has  an  eye  and  ear  in  every 
corner  of  the  Republic,  rests  now  in  revealing  the  name 
of  that  one,  be  he  great  or  small,  who  has  warned  liiin 
of  his  danger  and  made  known  a  secret  resolve  of  the 
State." 


THE  COUNT  PE8ARO.  241 

Antonio  hesitated  ;  to  refuse  was  death,  and  perhaps 
a  torture  which  might  compel  his  secret.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  Count  his  father  was  high  in  power ;  it  seem 
ed  scarcely  possible  that  harm  could  come  nigh  to  one 
holding  place  in  the  Great  Council  itself.  Blanche,  too, 
had  deserted  her  home,  and  perilled  life  and  character 
upon  the  chance  of  his  escape.  His  death,  or  even  hig 
return,  would  make  sure  her  ruin. 

The  masked  figure  presented  to  him  a  tablet,  upon 
which  he  wrote,  with  a  faltering  hand,  the  name  of  his 
informant, — "  the  Count  Pesaro. " 

But  the  Great  Council  was  as  cautious  in  those  days, 
as  it  was  cruel.  Antonio  possessed  a  secret  which  was 
safe  nowhere  in  Europe.  His  oarsmen  were  bound.  The 
barge  of  State  was  turned  toward  Venice.  The  gondola 
trailed  after  ; — but  Antonio  was  no  longer  within.  The 
plash  of  a  falling  body,  and  a  low  cry  of  agony,  were 
deadened  by  the  brush  of  the  oars,  as  the  boat  of  St. 
Mark  swept  down  toward  the  silent  city. 

Three  days  thereafter  the  Doge  and  his  privy  council 
received  a  verbal  message  that  a  chair  in  the  chamber 
of  Inquisition  was  vacant,  and  there  was  needed  a  new 
wearer  for  the  crimson  robe. 

But  not  for  weeks  did  the  patricians  of  Venice  miss 

the  stately  Count  Pesaro  from  his  haunts  at  the  Broglio 

and  the  tables  of  the  Ridotto.     And  when  they  knew  at 

length,  from  the  closed  windows  of  his  palace,  and  his 

11 


242  SEVEN  STORIES. 

houseless  servitors,  that  lie  was  gone,  they  shook  theif 
heads  mysteriously,  but  said  never  a  word. 

The  wretched  Fra  Paolo,  in  urging  his  claim  for  the 
absent  Enrico,  gave  token  that  he  knew  of  the  sin  and 
shame  of  the  Count  of  Pesaro.  Such  knowledge  no  pri 
vate  man  might  keep  in  the  Venetian  State  and  live. 
The  poor  priest  was  buried  where  no  inscription  might  be 
written,  and  no  friend  might  mourn. 

IV. 

IN  those  feeble  days  of  Venice  which  went  before  the 
,  triumphant  entry  of  Napoleon,  when  the  Council 
of  Three  had  themselves  learned  to  tremble,  and  the 
Lion  of  St.  Mark  was  humbled, — there  came  to  Venice, 
from  the  island  of  Corfu,  a  palsied  old  man  whose  name 
was  Enrico  Pesaro,  bringing  with  him  an  only  son  who 
was  called  Antonio. 

The  old  man  sought  to  gather  such  remnants  of  the 
aucient  Pesaro  estate  as  could  be  saved  from  the  greedy 
hands  of  the  government ;  and  he  purchased  rich  masses 
for  the  rest  of  the  souls  of  the  murdered  father  and 
brother. 

He  died  when  Venice  died ;  leaving  as  a  legacy  to 
his  son  a  broken  estate  and  the  bruised  heart,  with  which 
he  had  mourned  the  wrong  done  to  his  kindred.  The 
boy  Antonio  had  only  mournful  memories  of  the  old 


THE  COUNT  PESARO.  243 

Venice,  where  his  family — once  a  family  of  honor,  and 
of  great  deeds — was  cut  down  ;  and  the  new  Venice  was 
a  conquered  city. 

In  the  train  of  the  triumphant  Army  of  Italy  there 
came,  after  a  few  years,  many  whose  families  had  beer, 
in  times  past  banished  and  forgotten.  An  old  love  for  the 
great  city,  whose  banner  had  floated  proudly  in  all  seas, 
drew  them  to  the  shrine  in  the  water,  where  the  ashes 
of  their  fathers  mouldered.  Others  wandered  thither 
seeking  vestiges  of  old  inheritance ;  or,  it  might  be, 
traces  of  brothers,  or  of  friends,  long  parted  from  them 

Among  these,  there  came,  under  the  guardianship 
ol  a  great  French  general,  a  pensive  girl  from  Avignon 
on  the  Rhone.  She  seemed  French  in  tongue,  and  yet 
she  spoke  well  the  language  of  Italy,  and  her  namft  was 
that  of  a  house  which  was  once  great  in  Venice.  She 
sought  both  friends  and  inheritance. 

Her  story  was  a  singular  one.  Her  grandfather 
was  once  royal  ambassador  to  the  State  of  Venice.  Her 
mother  had  fled  at  night  from  his  house,  to  meet  upon 
the  shores  of  the  Lagoon  a  Venetian  lover,  who  was  of 
noble  family,  but  a  culprit  of  the  State.  As  she  ap 
proached  the  rendezvous,  upon  the  fatal  night,  she 
found  in  the  distance  a  flaming  barge  of  St.  Mark  ;  and 
presently  after,  heard  the  cry  and  struggles  of  some  vic 
tim  of  State  cast  into  the  Lagoon. 

Her  gondola  came  up  in  time  to  save  Antonio  Pesaro  ! 


244  SEVEN  STORIES. 

The  government  put  no  vigor  in  its  search  for  drown* 
ed  men  :  and  the  fugitives,  made  :nan  and  wife,  journeyed 
safely  across  Piedmont.  The  arm  of  St.  Mark  was  very 
strong  for  vengeance,  even  in  distant  countries  ;  and  the 
fugitive  ones  counted  it  safe  to  wear  another  name, 
until  years  should  have  made  safe  again  the  title  of 
Pesaro. 

The  wife  had  also  to  contend  with  the  opposition  of 
a  father,  whose  abhorrence  of  the  Venetian  name  would 
permit  no  reconciliation,  and  no  royal  sanction  of  the 
marriage.  Thus  they  lived,  outcasts  from  Venice,  and 
outlawed  in  France,  in  the  valley  town  of  Avignon. 
With  the  death  of  Pesaro,  the  royal  ambassador  relented  ; 
but  kindness  came  too  late.  The  daughter  sought  him 
only  to  bequeath  to  his  care  her  child. 

But  Blanche  Pesaro,  child  as  she  was,  could  not  love 
a  parent  who  had  not  loved  her  mother  ;  and  the  royal 
ambassador,  who  could  steel  his  heart  toward  a  suffer 
ing  daughter,  could  spend  little  sympathy  upon  her 
Italian  child.  Therefore  Blanche  was  glad,  under  the 
protection  of  a  republican  general  of  Provence,  to  seek 
what  friends  or  kindred  might  yet  be  found  in  the  island 
city,  where  her  father  had  once  lived,  and  her  mother 
had  loved.  She  found  there  a  young  Count  (for  the 
title  had  been  revived)  Antonio  Pesaro — her  own  father's 
name ;  and  her  heart  warmed  toward  him,  as  to  her 
nearest  of  kin.  And  the  young  Count  Autonio  Pesarcv 


THE  COUNT  PESARO.  245 

when  he  met  this  new  cousin  from  the  West,  felt  his 
heart  warming  toward  one  whose  story  seemed  to  lift 
a  crime  from  off  the  memory  of  his  father.  There  was 
no  question  of  inheritance,  for  the  twro  parties  joined 
their  claim,  and  Blanche  became  Countess  of  Pesaro. 

But  the  pensive  face  which  had  bloomed  among  the 
olives  by  Avignon,  drooped  under  the  harsh  winds  that 
whistle  among  the  leaning  houses  of  Venice.  And  the 
Count,  who  had  inherited  sadness,  found  other  and 
stronger  grief  in  the  wasting  away,  and  the  death  of 
Blanche,  his  wife. 

She  died  on  a  November  day,  in  the  tall,  dismal 
house  where  the  widowed  Count  now  lives.  And  there 
the  daughter,  Blanche  left  him,  arranges  flowers  on  the 
the  ledge  of  the  topmost  windows,  where  a  little  of  the 
sunshine  finds  its  way. 

The  broken  gentleman  lingers  for  hours  beside  the 
portraits  of  the  old  Count,  who  was  Inquisitor,  and  of 
Antonio,  who  had  such  wonderful  escape  ;  and  they  say 
that  he  has  inherited  the  deep  self-reproaches  which  his 
father  nourished,  and  that  with  stern  and  silent  mourn 
ing  for  the  sins  and  the  weaknesses  which  have  stained 
his  family  name,  he  strides,  with  his  vacant  air,  through 
the  ways  of  the  ancient  city,  expecting  no  friend  but 
death. 

Such  was  the  story  which  my  garrulous  little  Pro- 


246  SEVEN  STORIES. 

fessor,  warmed  with  the  lively  Italian  wine,  told  to  me 
in  the  Locanda  del  Vapore. 

And,  judging  as  well  as  I  can  from  the  air  of  the  old 
gentleman,  and  his  daughter,  whom  I  first  saw  upon  the 
Quay  of  the  Zattere,  and  from  what  I  can  learn  through 
books  of  the  ancient  government  of  Venice,  I  think  the 
story  may  be  true. 

My  lively  little  Professor  says  it  is  verissimo;  which 
means,  that  it  as  true  as  anything  (in  Italian)  can  be. 


SEVENTH  STOUT 


EMILE    ROQUE. 


SEVENTH  STORY: 

Emlle  Roque. 

I. 

IT  may  be  very  bad  taste  in  me  but  I  must  confess 
to  a  strong  love  tor  many  ot  those  old  French 
painters  who  flourished  during  the  last  century,  and  at 
whom  it  is  now  quite  the  fashion  to  sneer.  I  do  not  al 
lude  to  the  Poussins,  of  whom  the  best  was  more  Ro 
man  than  Frenchman,  and  whose  most  striking  pictures 
seem  to  me  to  wear  no  nationality  of  sentiment ;  there 
is  nothing  lively  and  mercurial  in  them ;  hardly  any 
thing  that  is  cheerful.  But  what  a  gayety  there  is  m 
the  Vanloos — all  of  them  !  What  a  lively  prettiness  in 
the  little  girl-faces  of  Greuze  !  What  a  charming  co 
quetry  in  the  sheep  and  shepherdesses  of  Watteau  ! 

To  be  sure  the  critics  tell  us  that  his  country  swains 
and  nymphs  are  far  more  arch  and  charming  than  any 


250  SEVEN  STORIES. 

swains  ever  were  in  nature ;  and  that  his  goats  even, 
browse,  and  listen  and  look  on,  more  coquettishly  than 
live  goats  ever  did ;  but  what  do  I  care  for  that  ? 

Are  they  not  well  drawn?  Are  they  not  sweetly 
colored?  Do  not  the  trees  seem  to  murmur  summer 
strains  ?  Does  not  the  gorgeousness  of  the  very  atmo 
sphere  invite  the  charming  languor  you  see  in  his 
groups?  Is  it  not  like  spending  a  day  of  summer 
stretched  on  the  grass  at  St.  Cloud — gazing  idly  on 
Paris  and  the  plain — to  look  on  one  of  the  painted  pas 
torals  of  Watteau? 

Are  not  his  pictures  French  from  corner  to  corner — 
beguilingly  French — French  to  the  very  rosette  that  sets 
off  the  slipper  of  his  shepherdess?  If  there  are  no 
such  shepherdesses  in  nature,  pray  tell  me,  do  you  not 
wish  there  were — throngs  of  them,  lying  on  the  hill 
sides  all  about  you — just  as  charming  and  as  mischiev 
ous? 

Watteau's  brooks  show  no  mud :  why  should  the 
feet  of  his  fountain  nymphs  be  made  for  anything  but 
dancing?  Watteau's  sheep  are  the  best-behaved  sheep 
in  the  world  ;  then  why  should  his  country  swains  look 
red  in  the  face,  or  weary  with  their  watches  ?  Why 
should  they  do  anything  but  sound  a  flageolet,  or  coquet 
with  pretty  shepherdesses  who  wear  blue  sashes,  and 
rosettes  in  their  shoes  ?  In  short,  there  is  a  marvellous 
keeping  about  Watteau's  pictures, — whatever  the  critics 


EMILE  ROQUE.  251 

may  say  of  their  untruth :  if  fictions,  they  are  charm 
ing  fictions,  which,  like  all  good  fictions,  woo  you  into  a 
wish  "  it  were  true." 

But  I  did  not  set  out  to  write  critiques  upon  paint 
ings  ;  nobody  reads  them  through  when  they  are  written. 
I  have  a  story  to  tell.  Poor  Emile  ! but  I  must  be 
gin  at  the  beginning. 

Liking  Watteau  as  I  do,  and  loving  to  look  for  ten 
minutes  together  into  the  sweet  girl-face  of  Greuze'a 
"  Broken  Jug,"  I  used  to  loiter  when  I  was  in  Paris  for 
hours  together  in  those  rooms  of  the  Louvre  where  the 
more  recent  French  paintings  are  distributed,  and  where 
the  sunlight  streams  in  warmly  through  the  south  win 
dows,  even  in  winter.  Going  there  upon  passeport  days, 
I  came  to  know,  after  a  while,  the  faces  of  all  the  artists 
who  busy  themselves  with  copying  those  rollicking  French 
masters  of  whom  I  have  spoken.  Nor  could  I  fail  to 
remark  that  the  artists  who  chose  those  sunny  rooms  for 
their  easels,  and  those  sunny  masters  for  their  subjects, 
were  far  more  cheerful  and  gay  in  aspect  than  the 
pinched  and  sour-looking  people  in  the  Long  Gallery, 
who  grubbed  away  at  their  Da  Vincis,  and  their  Sassc 
Ferratos. 

Among  those  who  wore  the  joyous  faces,  and  who 
courted  the  sunny  atmosphere  which  hangs  about  Bou 
cher  and  Watteau,  I  had  frequent  occasion  to  remark  a 
tall,  athletic  young  fellow,  scarce  four-and-twenty,  whc 


252  SEVEN  STORIES. 

seemed  to  take  a  special  delight  in  drawing  the  pretty 
shepherdesses  and  the  well-behaved  goats  about  which 
I  was  jnst  now  speaking. 

I  do  not  think  he  was  a  great  artist ;  I  feel  quite 
sure  that  he  never  imagined  it  himself ;  but  he  came  to 
his  work,  and  prepared  his  easel — rubbing  his  hands 
together  the  while — with  a  glee  that  made  me  sure  he 
had  fallen  altogether  into  the  spirit  of  that  sunny  nymph- 
world  which  Watteau  has  created. 

I  have  said  that  I  thought  him  no  great  artist ;  nor 
was  he ;  yet  there  was  something  quite  remarkable  in 
his  copies.  He  did  not  finish  well ;  his  coloring  bore 
no  approach  to  the  noontide  mellowness  of  the  originals  ; 
his  figures  were  frequently  out  of  drawing  ;  but  he  never 
failed  to  catch  the  expression  of  the  faces,  and  to  inten 
sify  (if  I  may  use  the  term)  the  joviality  that  belonged 
to  them.  He  turned  the  courtly  levity  of  Watteau  into 
a  kind  of  mad  mirth.  You  could  have  sworn  to  the 
identity  of  the  characters ;  but  on  the  canvas  of  the 
copyist  they  had  grown  riotous. 

What  drew  my  attention  the  more  was — what  seem 
ed  to  me  the  artist's  thorough  and  joyful  participation 
in  the  riot  he  made.  After  a  rapid  half-dozen  of  louche? 
with  his  brush,  he  would  withdraw  a  step  or  two  from 
his  easel,  and  gaze  at  his  work  with  a  hearty  satisfac 
tion  that  was  most  cheering,  even  to  a  looker-on.  His 
glance  seemed  to  say — "  There  I  have  you,  little 


EMILE  ROQUE.  253 

nymphs ;  I  have  taken  you  out  of  the  genteel  society 
of  Watteau,  and  put  you  on  my  own  ground,  where  you 
may  frisk  as  much  as  you  please."  And  he  would  beat 
the  measure  of  a  light  polka  on  his  pallet. 

I  ought  to  say  that  this  artist  was  a  fine-looking 
fellow  withal,  and  his  handsome  face,  aglow  with  en 
thusiasm,  drew  away  the  attention  of  not  a  few  lady 
visitors  from  the  pretty  Vanloos  scattered  around.  I  do 
not  think  he  was  ever  disturbed  by  this  ;  I  do  not  think 
that  he  tweaked  his  mustache,  or  gave  himself  airs  in 
consequence.  Yet  he  saw  it  all ;  he  saw  everything 
and  everybody ;  his  face  wore  the  same  open,  easy, 
companionable  look  which  belongs  to  the  frolicking 
swains  of  Watteau.  His  freedom  of  manner  invited 
conversation ;  and  on  some  of  my  frequent  visits  to  the 
French  gallery  I  was  in  the  habit  of  passing  a  word  or 
two  with  him  myself. 

"  You  seem,"  said  I  to  him  one  day,  "  to  admire 
Watteau  very  much  ?  " 

"  Oui,  Monsieur,  vous  avez  raison :  faime  les  chases 
riantes,  moi" 

"  We  have  the  same  liking,"  said  I. 

"  Ah)  vous  aussi :  je  vous  en  fclicitc,  Monsieur. 
Tenez" — drawing  me  forward  with  the  most  naive 
manner  in  the  world  to  look  at  a  group  he  had  just 
completed — "  Regardez  I  n'est  ce  pas,  que  ces  petite* 
dames  Id  rient  aux  anges  f  " 


1 54  SEVEN  STOR1E& 

I  chanced  to  have  in  that  time  an  artist  friend  in 
Paris — De  Courcy,  a  Provincial  by  birth,  but  one  who 
had  spent  half  his  life  in  the  capital,  and  who  knew  by 
name  nearly  every  copyist  who  made  his  appearance  at 
either  of  the  great  galleries.  He  was  himself  busy  just 
then  at  the  Luxembourg  ;  but  I  took  him  one  day  with 
me  through  the  Louvre,  and  begged  him  to  tell  me  who 
was  the  artist  so  enraptured  with  Watteau  ? 

As  I  had  conjectured,  he  knew,  or  professed  to 
know,  all  about  him.  He  sneered  at  his  painting — as  a 
matter  of  course :  his  manner  was  very  sketchy ;  his 
trees  stiff;  no  action  in  his  figures;  but,  after  all,  tol 
erably  well — -passablement  ~bien — for  an  amateur. 

He  was  a  native  of  the  South  of  France  ;  his  name 
— Emile  Roque  ;  he  was  possessed  of  an  easy  fortune, 
and  was  about  to  marry,  rumor  said,  the  daughter  of  a 
government  officer  of  some  distinction  in  the  Depart 
ment  of  Finance. 

Was  there  any  reason  why  my  pleasant  friend  of  the 
sunny  pictures  should  not  be  happy  ?  Rumor  gave  to 
his  promised  bride  a  handsome  dot.  Watteau  was  al 
ways  open  to  his  pencil  and  his  humor.  Bad  as  his 
copies  might  be,  he  enjoyed  them  excessively.  He  had 
youth  and  health  on  his  side ;  and  might,  for  aught 
that  appeared,  extend  his  series  of  laughing  nymphs 
and  coquettish  shepherdesses  to  the  end  of  his  life. 

The  thought  of  him,  or  of  the  cheery  years  which 


EMILE  ROQUK  255 

lay  before  him,  came  to  my  mind  very  often,  as  I  weni 
journeying  shortly  after,  through  the  passes  of  the  Alps. 
It  comes  to  me  now,  as  I  sit  by  my  crackling  fireside  in 
New  England,  with  the  wind  howling  through  the  pine- 
tree  at  the  corner,  and  the  snow  lying  high  upon  the 
ground. 

TI. 

I  HAD  left  Paris  in  the  month  of  May ;  I  came 
back  toward  the  end  of  August.  The  last  is  a 
dull  month  for  the  capital ;  Parisians  have  not  yet  re 
turned  from  Baden,  or  the  Pyrenees,  or  Dieppe.  True, 
the  Boulevard  is  always  gay  ;  but  it  has  its  seasons  of 
exceeding  gayety:  and  latter  summer  is  by  no  means  one 
of  them.  The  shopmen  complain  of  the  dulness,  and 
lounge  idly  at  their  doors  ;  their  only  customers  are 
passing  strangers.  Pretty  suites  of  rooms  are  to  be  had 
at  half  the  rates  of  autumn,  or  of  opening  spring.  The 
bachelor  can  indulge  without  extravagance  in  apart 
ments  looking  upon  the  Madeleine.  The  troops  of  chil 
dren  whom  you  saw  in  the  spring-time  under  the  lee  of 
the  terrace  wall  in  the  "  little  Provence  "  of  tho  Tuile- 
ries  are  all  gone  to  St.  Germain,  or  to  Trouville.  You 
Bee  no  more  the  tall  caps  of  the  Norman  nurses,  or  the 
tight  little  figures  of  the  Breton  bonnes. 

It  is  the  season  of  vacation  at  the  schools ;  and  ij 


256  SEVKN  STORIES. 

you  stroll  by  the  Sorborme,  or  the  College  of  France, 
the  streets  have  a  deserted  air ;  and  the  garden  of  the 
Luxembourg  is  filled  only  with  invalids  and  strolling 
soldiers.  The  artists  even,  have  mostly  stolen  away 
from  their  easels  in  the  galleries,  and  are  studying  the 
live  fish  Avomen  of  Boulogne  or  the  barc-ankled  shep 
herdesses  of  Auvergne. 

I  soon  found  my  way  to  all  the  old  haunts  of  the 
capital.  I  found  it  easy  to  revive  my  taste  for  the 
coffee  of  the  Rotondc,  in  the  Palais  Royal ;  and  easy  to 
listen  and  laugh  at  Sainville  and  Grassot.  I  went,  a 
few  days  after  my  return,  to  the  always  charming  sa 
lons  of  the  Louvre.  The  sun  was  hot  at  this  season 
upon  that  wing  of  the  palace  where  hang  the  pictures 
of  TVatteau ;  and  the  galleries  were  nearly  deserted. 
In  the  salon  where  I  had  seen  so  often  the  beaming  ad 
mirer  of  nymphs  and  shepherdesses,  there  wat  now  only 
a  sharp-faced  English  woman,  with  bright  erysipelas  on 
nose  and  cheeks,  Avorking  hard  at  a  Diana  of  Vanloo. 

I  strolled  on  carelessly  to  the  cool  corner  rooai, 
serving  as  antechamber  to  the  principal  gallery,  and 
which  every  visitor  will  remember  for  its  great  picture 
of  the  battle  of  Eylau.  There  are  several  paintings 
about  the  walls  of  this  salon,  which  are  in  constant  re 
quest  by  the  copyists ;  I  need  hardly  mention  that 
favorite  picture  of  Gerard,  L' Amour  ct  Psych''.  There 
was  a  group  about  it  now  ;  and  in  the  neighborhood  of 


EMILE  ROQUE.  257 

tbis  group  I  saw,  to  my  surprise,  my  old  artist  acquaint 
ance  of  the  Watteau  nymphs.  But  a  sad  change  had 
come  over  him  since  I  saw  him  last.  The  gay  humor 
that  shone  in  his  face  on  my  spring  visits  to  the  gallery 
was  gone.  The  openness  of  look  which  seemed  to  chal 
lenge  regard,  if  not  conversation,  he  had  lost  utterly. 
I  was  not  surprised  that  he  had  deserted  the  smiling 
shepherdesses  of  Watteau. 

There  was  a  settled  and  determined  gloom  upon  his 
face,  which  I  was  sure  no  painted  sunshine  could  en 
liven.  He  was  not  busy  with  the  enamelled  prettiness 
of  Gerard  ;  far  from  it.  His  easel  was  beside  him,  but 
his  eye  was  directed  toward  that  fearful  melo-dramatic 
painting — La  Mijduse  of  Gericault.  It  is  a  horrible 
shipwreck  story  :  a  raft  is  floating  upon  an  ocean  waste  ; 
dead  bodies  that  may  have  been  copied  from  the  dissect- 
ing-halls,  lie  on  it ;  a  few  survivors,  emaciated,  and 
with  rigid  limbs,  cluster  around  the  frail  spar  that 
serves  as  mast,  and  that  sways  with  the  weight  of  a 
tattered  sail ;  one  athletic  figure  rises  above  this  dismal 
group,  and  with  emaciated  arm  held  to  its  highest 
reach,  lifts  a  fluttering  rag ;  his  bloodshot  eye,  lighted 
with  a  last  hope,  strains  over  the  waste  of  waters 
which  seethe  beyond  him. 

It  was  a  picture  from  which  I  had  always  turned 
away  with  a  shudder.  It  may  have  truth  and  force  ; 
but  the  truth  is  gross,  and  the  force  brutal.  Yet  upon 


258  SEVEN'  STORIES. 

this  subject  I  found  Emile  Roque  engaged  with  a  fearful 
intensity.  He  had  sketched  only  the  principal  figure  of 
the  dying  group — the  athlete  who  beckons  madly,  whose 
hope  is  on  the  waste.  He  had  copied  only  a  fragment 
of  the  raft — barely  enough  to  give  foothold  to  the 
figure  ;  he  had  not  even  painted  the  sea,  but  had  filled 
his  little  canvas  with  a  cold  white  monotone  of  color, 
like  a  sleeted  waste  in  winter. 

I  have  already  remarked  the  wonderful  vitality 
which  he  gave  to  mirth  in  his  frolicsome  pastorals  ;  the 
same  power  was  apparent  here  ;  and  he  had  intensified 
the  despair  of  the  wretched  castaway,  shaking  out 
his  last  rag  of  hope, — to  a  degree  that  was  painful  to 
look  upon. 

I  went  near  him ;  but  he  wore  no  longer  the  old 
tokens  of  ready  fellowship.  He  plainly  had  no  wish  to 
recognize,  or  be  recognized.  He  was  intent  only  upon 
wreaking  some  bitter  thought,  or  some  blasted  hope  in 
the  face  of  that  shipwrecked  man.  The  despairing  look? 
and  the  bloodshot  eye,  which  he  had  given  to  his  copy 
of  the  castaway,  haunted  me  for  days.  It  made  that 
kind  of  startling  impression  upon  my  mind -which  I  was 
sure  could  never  be  forgotten.  I  never  think,  even  now, 
of  that  painting  in  the  Louvre,  with  the  cold  north  light 
gleaming  on  it,  but  the  ghastly  expression  of  the  ship 
wrecked  man — as  Emile  Roque  had  rendered  it  in  his 
copy — starts  to  my  mind  like  a  phantom.  I  see  the  rag 


EMILE  ROQUE.  259 

fluttering  from  the  clenched,  emaciated  hand  ;  I  see  tie 
pallid,  pinched  flesh ;  I  see  the  starting  eyes,  bearing 
resemblance, — as  it  seemed  to  me  afterward,  and  seems 
to  me  now, — to  those  of  the  distracted  artist. 

There  was  a  cloud  over  the  man ;  I  felt  sure  of 
that ;  I  feared  what  might  be  the  end  of  it.  My  eye 
ran  over  the  daily  journals,  seeking  in  the  list  of  sui 
cides  for  the  name  of  Emile  Roque.  I  thought  it 
would  come  to  that.  On  every  new  \isit  to  the  Louvre 
I  expected  to  find  him  gone.  But  he  was  there,  assidu 
ous  as  ever  ;  refining  still  upon  the  horrors  of  Gericault. 

My  acquaintance  of  the  Luxembourg,  De  Courcy, 
who  had  given  me  all  the  information  I  possessed  about 
the  history  and  prospects  of  this  artist,  was  out  of  the 
city ;  he  would  not  return  until  late  in  the  autumn.  I 
dropped  a  line  into  the  Poste  Restante  to  meet  him  on 
his  return,  as  I  was  myself  very  shortly  on  the  wing  for 
Italy.  I  can  recall  perfectly  the  expressions  in  my  let 
ter.  After  intrusting  him  with  one  or  two  unimportant 
commissions,  I  said :  "  By-the-by,  you  remember  the 
jolly-looking  Emile  Roque,  who  made  such  a  frenzy 
out  of  his  love  for  Watteau  and  his  shepherdesses,  and 
who  was  to  come  into  possession  of  a  pretty  wife  and  a 
pretty  dot? 

"Is  the  dot  forthcoming?  Before  you  answer,  go 
and  look  at  him  again — in  the  Louvre  still ;  but  he  has 
deserted  Watteau ;  he  is  studying  and  copying  the  hor- 


260  SEVEN  STORIES. 

rors  of  La  Meduse.  It  does  not  look  like  a  betiothal  or 
a  honeymoon.  If  he  were  not  an  amateur,  I  should 
charge  you  to  buy  for  me  that  terrible  figure  he  is 
working  up  from  the  raft  scene.  The  intensity  he  is 
putting  in  it  is  not  Gericault's — my  word  for  it,  it  is 
his  own. 

"When  he  is  booked  among  the  suicides  (where 
your  Parisian  forms  of  madness  seem  to  tend),  send 
me  the  journal,  and  tell  me  what  you  can  of  the  why." 

In  the  galleries  of  Florence  one  forgets  the  French 
painters  utterly,  and  rejoices  in  the  forgetfulness. 
Among  the  Carraccis  and  the  Guidos  what  room  is  there 
for  the  lover-like  Watteau  ?  Even  Greuze,  on  the  walls 
of  the  Pitti  Palace,  would  be  Greuze  no  longer.  It  is 
a  picture  -life  one  leads  in  those  old  cities  of  art,  grow 
ing  day  by  day  into  companionship  with  the  masters 
and  the  masters'  subjects. 

How  one  hob-nobs  with  the  weird  sisters  of  Michael 
Angelo  !  How  he  pants  through  Snyder's  Boar-Hunt, 
or  lapses  into  a  poetic  sympathy  with  the  marble  flock 
of  Niobe  ! 

Who  wants  letters  of  introduction  to  the  "nice 
people"  of  Florence,  when  he  can  chat  with  the  Forna- 
rina  by  the  hour,  and  listen  to  Raphael's  Pope  Julius  ? 

Yesterday — I  used  to  say  to  myself — I  spent  an 
hour  or  two  with  old  Gerard  Douw  and  pretty  Angelica 
Kauffman — nice  people,  both  of  them.  To-morrow  T 


SMILE  ROQUE.  261 

will  pass  the  morning  with  Titian,  and  lunch  off  a  plate 
of  Carlo  Dolci's.  In  such  company  one  grows  into  a 
delightful  "Middle-Age"  feeling,  in  which  the  vanities 
of  daily  journals  and  hotel  bills  are  forgotten. 

In  this  mood  of  mind,  when  I  was  hesitating,  one 
day  of  mid-winter,  whether  I  would  sun  myself  in  a 
Claude  Lorraine,  or  between  the  Arno  and  the  houses, 
the  valet  of  the  inn  where  I  was  staying,  put  a  letter  in 
my  hand  bearing  a  Paris  post-mark. 

"  It  must  be  from  De  Courcy,"  said  I ;  and  my 
fancy  straightway  conjured  up  an  image  of  the  dapper 
little  man  disporting  among  all  the  gayeties  and  the 
grisettes  of  a  Paris  world  ;  but  I  had  never  one  thought 
of  poor  Emile  Roque,  until  I  caught  sight  of  his  name 
within  the  letter. 

After  acquitting  himself  of  the  sundry  commissions 
left  in  his  keeping,  De  Courcy  says  : — 

"  You  were  half  right  and  half  wrong  about  the 
jolly  artist  of  Watteau.  His  suicide  is  not  in  the  jour 
nals,  but  for  all  that  it  may  be.  I  had  no  chance  of 
seeing  him  at  his  new  game  in  the  corner  salon,  for  the 
bird  had  flown  before  my  return.  I  heard,  though,  very 
much  of  his  strange  copy  of  the  crowning  horror  of 
Gericautt.  Nor  would  you  have  been  the  only  one  in 
th?  market  as  purchaser  of  his  extravaganza.  A  droll 
gtory  is  told  of  an  English  visitor  who  was  startled  one 
day  by,  1  dare  say,  the  same  qualities  which  you  dis- 


2G2  SEVEN  STORIES. 

covered  iu  the  copy ;  but  the  Briton,  with  none  of  your 
scruples,  addressed  himself,  in  the  best  way  he  could,  to 
the  artist  himself,  requesting  him  to  set  a  price  upon  his 
work. 

"  The  old  Emile  Roque  whom  I  had  known — in 
fact,  whom  we  had  known  together — would  have  met 
such  a  question  with  the  gayest  and  most  gallant  refusal 
possible. 

"  But  what  did  this  bewitched  admirer  of  Gericault 
do? 

"  lie  kept  at  his  work — doggedly,  gloomily. 

"  The  Englishman  stubbornly  renewed  his  inquiry — 
this  time  placing  his  hand  upon  the  canvas,  to  aid  his 
solicitation  by  so  much  of  pantomime. 

"  The  painter  (you  remember  his  stalwart  figure) 
brushed  the  stranger's  hand  aside,  and  with  a  petrifying 
look  and  great  energy  of  expression  (as  if  the  poor 
Briton  had  been  laying  his  hand  on  his  very  heart), 
said  :  '  C'est  d  moi.  Monsieur — d  moi — a  moi ! ' — beating 
his  hand  on  his  breast  the  while. 

"  Poor  Emile  I  The  jovial  times  of  Watteau's 
nymphs  are,  I  fear,  gone  forever. 

"  But  I  forget  to  tell  you  what  I  chiefly  had  in  mind 
when  I  began  this  mention  of  him.  Some  say  his  love 
has  crazed  him — some  say  no.  The  truth  is,  he  is  not 

to  marry  the  pretty  Virgiuie  C ,  one  time  his 

affianced. 


EMILE  ROQUE.  .  263 

"  There  are  objections.  Rumor  says  they  come 

from  Monsieur  C ,  sous  chef  in  the  office  of  Finance, 

and  father  of  Virginie  ;  and  rumor  adds  that  the  objec 
tions  are  insurmountable.  What  they  are,  Heaven  only 
knows.  Surely  a  daintier  fellow  never  sued  for  favor  ; 
and  as  for  scandal,  Emile  Roque  was  what  you  call,  I 
believe,  a  Puritan."  [I  do  not  think  it  necessary  to 
correct  De  Courcy's  strange  use  of  an  English  term.] 

"The  oddest  thing  of  all  I  have  yet  to  tell  you. 
This  broken  hope  diverted  Emile  from  Watteau  to  the 
corner  salon  of  the  Louvre  ;  at  least  I  infer  as  much, 
since  the  two  events  agree  in  time.  It  is  evident,  fur 
thermore,  that  the  poor  fellow  takes  the  matter  bitterly 
to  heart ;  and  it  is  perfectly  certain  that  all  the  objec 
tion  rests  with  the  father  of  the  fiancee. 

"  So  far,  nothing  strange  ;  but  notwithstanding  this 

opposition  on  the  part  of  Monsieur  C ,  it  is  known 

that  Emile  was  in  constant  and  familiar,  nay,  friendly 
communication  with  him  up  to  the  time  of  his  disap 
pearance  from  the  capital,  which  occurred  about  the 
date  of  my  return. 

"  Read  me  this  riddle  if  you  can  !  Is  the  rendering 
of  the  horrors  of  Gericault  to  restore  Emile  to  favor? 
Or  shall  I,  as  you  prophesied  four  months  ago  (ample 
time  for  such  consummation),  still  look  for  his  enroll' 
ment  among  the  suicides  ?  " 

With  this  letter  in  my  hand  (there  were  others  in 


264  SEVEN  STORIES. 

my  heart),  I  gave  up  for  that  day  the  noontides  of 
Claude,  and  surjied  myself  instead  along  the  Arno. 
Beyond  the  houses  which  hang  on  the  further  bank  of 
the  river,  I  could  see  the  windows  of  the  Pitti  Palace 
and  the  cypresses  of  theBoboli  gardens,  and  above  both, 
the  blue  sky  which  arched  over  the  tower  of  Galileo 
upon  the  distant  hills.  I  wished  the  distracted  painter 
might  have  been  there  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  houses, 
which  were  full  of  memories  of  Angelo  and  Cellini,  to 
forget  his  troubles.  If  an  unwilling  father  were  all, 
there  might  be  no  suicide.  Still,  the  expression  in  his 
copy  of  the  castaway  haunted  me. 


III. 


WHY  should  I  go  on  to  speak  of  pictures  here — 
except  that  I  love  them  ?  Why  should  I  re 
call  the  disgusting  and  wonderful  old  men  and  women 
of  Denner,  which  hang  with  glass  over  them,  within 
the  window  bays  of  the  palace  of  Belvidere  at  Vienna? 
Why  should  my  fancy  go  stalking  through  that  great 
Rubens  Museum,  with  its  red  arms,  fat  bosoms,  pin 
cushion  cheeks,  and  golden  hair? 

Why  does  my  thought  whisk  away  to  that  gorgeous 
salon  of  Dresden,  where  hangs  the  greatest  of  all  Ra> 
phael's  Madonnas  ? 


EMILE  ROQUE.  265 

The  face  of  the  Virgin  is  all  that  makes  perfection 
in  female  beauty  ;  it  is  modest,  it  is  tender,  it  is  intelli 
gent.  The  eyes  are  living  eyes,  but  with  no  touch  of 
earthiness,  save  the  shade  of  care  which  earth's  sorrows 
give  even  to  the  Holy  Virgin.  She  wears  the  dignity 
of  the  mother  of  Christ,  with  nothing  of  severity  to  re 
pulse  ;  she  wears  the  youthful  innocence  of  the  spouse 
of  David,  with  no  touch  of  levity  ;  she  wears  the  modest 
bearing  of  one  whose  child  was  nursed  in  a  manger, 
with  the  presence  of  one  "  chosen  from  among  women." 
She  is  mounting  on  clouds  to  heaven  ;  light  as  an  angel, 
but  with  no  wings  ;  her  divinity  sustains  her.  In  her 
arms  she  holds  lightly  but  firmly  the  infant  Jesus,  who 
lias  the  face  of  a  true  child,  with  something  else  beyond 
humanity ;  his  eye  has  a  little  of  the  look  of  a  frighted 
boy  in  some  strange  situation,  where  he  knows  he  is 
sate,  and  where  yet  he  trembles.  His  light,  silky  hair 
is  strewn  by  a  wind  (you  feel  it  like  a  balm)  over  a 
brow  beaming  with  soul ;  he  looks  deserving  the  adora 
tion  the  shepherds  gave  him  ;  and  there  is  that — in  his 
manuer,  innocent  as  the  babe  he  was — in  his  look, 
Divine  as  the  God  he  was,  which  makes  one  see  in  the 

child 

— "  the  father  of  the  man." 

Pope  Sixtus  is  lifting  his  venerable  face  in  adoration 
from  below  ;  and  opposite,  Saint  Barbara,  beautiful  and 
modest,  has  dropped  her  eyes,  though  religious  awe  ard 
12 


2G6  SEVEN  STORIES. 

lo\e  are  beaming  in  her  looks.  Still  lower,  and  lifting 
their  heads  and  their  little  wings  only  above  the  edge 
of  the  picture,  are  two  cherubs,  who  are  only  less  in 
beauty  than  the  Christ ;  they  are  twins — but  they  are 
twin  angels — and  Christ  is  God. 

The  radiance  in  their  faces  is,  I  think,  the  most 
wonderful  thing  I  have  ever  seen  in  painting.  They  are 
listening  to  the  celestial  harmony  which  attends  the 
triumph  of  the  Virgin.  These  six  faces  make  up  the 
picture  ;  the  Jesus,  a  type  of  divinity  itself ;  the  Virgin, 
the  purity  of  earth,  as  at  the  beginning, — yet  humble, 
because  of  earth  ;  the  cherubs,  the  purity  of  heaven,  con 
scious  of  its  high  estate ;  the  two  saints,  earth  made 
pure  and  sanctified  by  Christ — half  doubting,  yet  full 
of  hope. 

I  wrote  thus  much  in  my  note-book,  as  I  stood  be 
fore  the  picture  in  that  room  of  the  Royal  G  allery  which 
looks  down  upon  the  market-place  of  Dresden  ;  and  with 
the  painting  lingering  in  my  thought  more  holily  than 
sermons  of  a  Sunday  noontime,  I  strolled  over  the  mar 
ket-place,  crossed  the  long  bridge  which  spans  the  Elbe, 
and  wandered  up  the  banks  of  the  river  as  far  as  the 
Findlater  Gardens.  The  terrace  is  dotted  over  with 
tables  and  benches,  where  one  may  sit  over  his  coffee 
or  ice,  and  enjoy  a  magnificent  view  of  Dresden,  the 
river,  the  bridge,  and  the  green  battle-field  where  Mo- 
reau  fell.  It  was  a  mild  day  of  winter,  and  I  sat  there 


EMILE  ROQUE.  267 

enjoying  the  prospect,  sipping  at  a  demi-tasse,  and  casting 
my  eye  from  time  to  time  over  an  old  number  of  the 
D'bats  newspaper,  which  the  waiter  had  placed  upon 
my  table. 

When  there  is  no  political  news  of  importance  stir 
ring,  I  was  always  in  the  habit  of  running  over  the 
column  of  Faits  Divers  :  "  Different  Things  "  translates 
it,  but  does  not  give  a  good  idea  of  the  piquancy  which 
usually  belongs  to  that  column.  The  suicides  are  all 
there ;  the  extraordinary  robberies  are  there  ;  impor 
tant  discoveries  are  entered  ;  and  all  the  bits  of  scandal, 
which,  of  course,  everybody  reads  and  everybody  says 
should  never  have  been  published. 

In  the  journal  under  my  hand  there  was  mention  of 
two  murders,— one  of  them  of  that  stereotype  class  grow 
ing  out  of  a  drunken  brawl,  which  the  world  seems  to 
regard  indifferently,  as  furnishing  the  needed  punctua 
tion-marks  in  the  history  of  civilization.  The  other 
drew  my  attention  very  closely. 

The  Count  de  Roquefort,  an  elderly  gentleman  of 
wealth  and  distinguished  family,  residing  in  a  chateau  a 
little  off  the  high  road  leading  from  Nisnies  to  Avignon, 
in  the  South  of  France,  had  been  brutally  murdered  in 
his  own  house.  The  Count  was  unmarried ;  none  of 
his  family  connection  resided  with  him,  and  aside  from 
a  considerable  retinue  of  servants,  he  lived  quite  alone- 
devoted,  as  was  said,  to  scientific  pursuits. 


£68  SEVEN  STORIES. 

It  appeared  that  two  days  before  his  assassination 
he  was  visited  by  a  young  man,  a  stranger  in  that  re 
gion,  who  was  received  (the  servants  testified)  kindly 
by  the  Count,  and  who  passed  two  hours  closeted  witli 
him  in  his  library.  On  the  day  of  the  murder  the  same 
young  man  was  announced ;  his  manner  was  excited, 
and  he  wras  ushered,  by  the  Count's  order,  into  the 
library,  as  before. 

It  wrould  seem,  however,  that  the  Count  had  anti 
cipated  the  possibility  of  some  trouble,  since  he  had 
secured  the  presence  of  two  "officers  of  the  peace"  in 
his  room.  It  was  evident  that  the  visitor  had  come  by 
appointment.  The  officers  were  concealed  under  the 
hangings  of  a  bay-window  at  the  end  of  the  library, 
with  orders  from  the  Count  not  to  act,  unless  they  should 
see  signs  of  violence. 

The  young  man,  on  entering,  advanced  toward  the 
table  beside  which  the  Count  was  seated,  reading.  He 
raised  his  head  at  the  visitor's  entrance,  and  beckoned 
to  a  chair. 

The  stranger  approached  more  nearly,  and  without 
seating  himself,  addressed  the  Count  in  a  firm  tone  of 
voice  to  this  effect : 

"  I  have  come  to  ask,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  if  you  are 
prepared  to  accept  the  propositions  I  made  to  you  two 
days  ago  'f " 

The  Count  seemed  to  hesitate  for  a  moment ;  but 


EMILE  ROQUE.  269 

only,  it  appeared,  from  hearing  some  noise  in  the  ser 
vants'  hall  below. 

The  visitor  appeared  excited  by  his  calmness,  and 
added,  "  I  remind  you,  for  the  last  time,  of  the  vow  I 
have  sworn  to  accomplish  if  you  refuse  my  demand." 

"  I  do  refuse,"  said  the  Count,  firmly.  "  It  is  a 
rash " 

It  was  the  last  word  upon  his  lips ;  for  before  the 
officers  could  interfere,  the  visitor  had  drawn  a  pistol 
from  his  breast  and  discharged  it  at  the  head  of  the 
Count.  The  ball  entered  the  brain.  The  Count  lin 
gered  for  two  hours  after,  but  showed  no  signs  of  con 
sciousness. 

The  assassin,  who  was  promptly  arrested,  is  a  stal 
wart  man  of  about  thirty,  and  from  the  contents  of  his 
portmanteau,  which  he  had  left  at  the  inn  of  an  adjoin 
ing  village,  it  is  presumed  that  he  followed  the  profession 
of  an  artist. 

The  cause  of  the  murder  is  still  a  mystery ;  the 
Count  had  communicated  nothing  to  throw  light  upon  it. 
He  was  a  kind  master,  and  was  not  known  to  have  an 
enemy  in  the  world. 

I  had  read  this  account  with  that  eager  curiosity 
with  which  I  believe  all — even  the  most  sensitive  and 
delicate — unwittingly  devour  narratives  of  that  kind  ;  I 
had  finished  my  half-cup  of  coffee,  and  was  conjecturing 
what  could  possibly  be  the  motive  for  such  a  murder. 


270  SEVEN  STORIES. 

and  what  the  relations  between  the  Count  and  the 
strange  visitor,  wheii  suddenly — like  a  flash — the  con 
viction  fastened  itself  upon  me,  that  the  murderer  was 
none  other  than  Emile  Roque  ! 

I  did  not  even  think  in  that  moment  of  the  remote 
similarity  in  the  two  names — Roque  and  De  Roquefort. 
For  anything  suggestive  that  lay  in  it,  the  name  might 
as  well  have  been  De  Montfort  or  De  Courcy ;  I  am 
quite  sure  of  that. 

Indeed,  no  association  of  ideas,  no  deduction  from 
the  facts  named,  led  me  to  the  conclusion  which  I  formed 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  Yet  my  conviction  was  as 
strong  as  my  own  consciousness.  I  knew  Emile  Roque 
was  the  murderer  ;  I  remembered  it ;  for  I  remembered 
his  copy  of  the  head  of  the  castaway  in  Gericault's 
Wreck  of  the  Medusa ! 

When  I  had  hazarded  the  conjecture  of  suicide,  I 
had  reasoned  loosely  from  the  changed  appearance  of 
the  man,  and  from  the  suicidal  tendency  of  the  Paris 
form  of  madness.  Now  I  reasoned,  not  from  the  ap 
pearance  of  the  man  at  all,  but  from  my  recollection  of 
his  painting. 

There  is  no  resignation  in  the  face  of  Gericault's 
shipwrecked  man ;  there  is  only  animal  fear  and  de 
spair,  lighted  with  but  one  small  ray  of  hope.  The  ties 
of  humanity  exist  no  longer  for  him ;  whatever  was 
near  or  dear  is  forgotten  in  that  supreme  moment  when 


EM1LE  ROQUE.  271 

the  animal  instinct  of  self-preservation  at  once  brutalizes 
and  vitalizes  every  faculty. 

Such  is  Gericault's  picture ;  but  Roque  had  added 
the  intensity  of  moral  despair :  he  had  foreshadowed 
the  tempest  of  a  soul  tossed  on  a  waste — not  of  ocean — 
but  of  doubt,  hate,  crime  !  I  felt  sure  that  he  had  un 
wittingly  foretokened  his  own  destiny. 

Are  there  not  moments  in  the  lives  of  all  of  us — 
supreme  moments — when  we  have  the  power  lent  us  to 
wreak  in  language,  or  on  canvas,  or  in  some  wild  burst 
of  music  (as  our  habit  of  expression  may  lie),  all  our 
capabilities,  and  to  typify,  by  one  eifort  of  the  soul,  all 
the  issues  of  our  life  ?  I  knew  now  that  Emile  Roque 
had  unwittingly  done  this  in  his  head  from  the  Medusa. 
I  knew  that  the  period  was  to  occur  in  his  life  when  his 
own  thought  and  action  would  illustrate  to  the  full  all 
the  wildness  and  the  despair  to  which  he  had  already 
given  pictured  expression.  I  cannot  tell  how  I  knew 
this,  any  more  than  I  can  tell  how  I  knew  that  he  was 
the  murderer. 

I  wrote  De  Courcy  that  very  day,  referring  him  to 
the  paragraph  I  had  read,  and  adding :  "  this  artist  is 
Emile  Roque,  but  who  is  the  Count  de  Roquefort  ?  " 
Tt  occasioned  me  no  surprise  to  hear  from  him  only  two 
days  after  (his  letter  having  crossed  mine  on  the  way), 
that  the  fact  of  Roque's  identity  with  the  culprit  was 
fully  confirmed.  And  De  Courcy  added  :  "  It  is  not  a 


272  SEVEN  STORIES. 

suicide  now,  but,  I  fear,  the  guillotine.  How  frightful ! 
Who  could  believe,  it  of  the  man  we  saw  rioting  among 
the  nymphs  of  Watteau  ?  ' 


IV. 


I  RETURNED  to  Paris  by  the  way  of  Belgium. 
I  think  it  was  in  the  Hotel  de  Saxe,  of  Brussels, 
where  I  first  happened  upon  a  budget  of  French  papers 
which  contained  a  report  of  the  trial  of  poor  Roque. 
It  was  a  hopeless  case  with  him ;  every  one  foresaw 
that.  For  a  time  I  do  not  think  there  was  any  sympa 
thy  felt  for  him.  The  testimony  all  went  to  show  the 
h armless  and  benevolent  character  of  the  murdered 
Count.  The  culprit  had  appeared  to  all  who  saw  him 
within  the  year  past,  of  a  morose  and  harsh  disposition. 

I  say  that  for  a  time  sympathy  was  with  the  mur 
dered  man  ;  but  certain  circumstances  came  to  light  to 
ward  the  close  of  the  trial,  and  indeed  after  it  was  over, 
and  the  poor  felLw's  fate  was  fixed,  which  gave  a  new 
turn  to  popular  feeling. 

These  circumstances  had  a  special  interest  for  mc\ 
inasmuch  as  they  cleared  up  the  mystery  which  had  be 
longed  to  his  change  of  manner  in  the  galleries  of  the 
Louvre,  and  to  his  relations  with  the  Count  de  Roquefort. 

I   will   try  and  state   these  circumstances  as  they 


EMILE  ROQUK  273 

caine  to  my  knowledge  through  the  newspaper  reports 
of  that  date. 

In  the  first  place,  the  Count,  after  the  visit  of 
Emile  Roque,  had  communicated  to  those  in  his  confi 
dence  nothing  respecting  the  nature  or  the  objects  of 
that  visit ;  and  this,  notwithstanding  he  had  such  reason 
to  apprehend  violence  on  its  repetition,  that  he  had  se 
cured  the  presence  of  two  officers  to  arrest  the  offensive 
person.  To  these  officers  he  had  simply  communicated 
the  fact  of  his  expecting  a  visit  from  an  unknown  indi 
vidual,  who  had  threatened  him  with  personal  violence. 

The  officers  were  quite  sure  that  the  Count  had 
spoken  of  the  criminal  as  a  stranger  to  him  ;  indeed,  he 
seemed  eager  to  convey  to  them  the  idea  that  he  had  no 
previous  knowledge  whatever  of  the  individual  who  so 
causelessly  threatened  his  peace. 

Nothing  was  found  among  the  Count's  papers  to  for 
bid  the  truthfulness  of  his  assertion  on  this  point ;  no 
letter  could  be  discovered  from  any  person  bearing  that 
name. 

The  mother  of  the  prisoner,  upon  learning  the  ac 
cusation  urged  against  him,  had  become  incapacitated 
by  a  severe  paralytic  attack,  from  appearing  as  a  wit 
ness,  or  from  giving  any  intelligible  information  what 
ever.  She  had  said  only,  in  the  paroxysm  of  her  dis 
tress,  and  before  her  faculties  were  withered  by  the 
shock  : — "  Lui  aussi  !  11  s'y  perd  I " 
12* 


274  SEVEN  STORIES. 

Not  one  of  the  companions  of  Emile  Roque  (ai  d  lie 
had  many  in  his  jovial  days)  had  ever  heard  him  speak 
of  the  Count  de  Roquefort.  Up  to  the  time  of  his  depar 
ture  for  the  South,  he  had  communicated  to  no  one  his 
intentions,  or  even  his  destination.  His  old  friends  had. 
indeed,  remarked  the  late  change  in  his  manner,  and 
had  attributed  it  solely  to  what  they  supposed  a  bitter 
disappointment  in  relation  to  his  proposed  marriage 
with  Virginie  C . 

I  have  already  alluded  (through  a  letter  from  De 
Courcy)  to  the  singular  fact,  that  Emile  Roque  continued 

his  familiarity  and  intimacy  with  Monsieur  C long 

after  the  date  of  the  change  in  his  appearance,  and  even 
up  to  the  time  of  his  departure  for  the  South.  It  was 

naturally  supposed  that  Monsieur  C would  prove 

an  important  witness  in  the  case.  His  testimony,  how 
ever,  so  far  from  throwing  light  upon  the  crime,  only 
doubled  the  mystery  attaching  to  the  prisoner's  fate. 

He  spoke  in  the  highest  terms  of  the  character  which 
the  criminal  had  always  sustained.  He  confirmed  the 
rumors  which  had  coupled  his  name  with  that  of  a 
member  of  his  own  family.  The  marriage  between  the 
parties  had  been  determined  upon  with  his  full  consent, 
and  only  waited  the  final  legal  forms  usual  in  such  cases 
for  its  accomplishment,  when  it  was  deferred  in  obedi 
ence  to  the  wishes  of  only  M.  Roque  himself  ! 

The  witness  regarded  this  as  a  caprice  at  the  first ; 


EMILE  ROQUE.  275 

but  the  sudden  change  in  the  manner  of  the  criminal 
from  that  time,  had  satisfied  him  that  some  secret  anxiety 
was  weighing  on  his  mind.  His  high  regard  for  the 
character  of  M.  Roque  prompted  (and  that  alone 
had  prompted)  a  continuance  of  intimacy  with  him,  and 
a  vain  repetition  of  endeavors  to  win  from  him  some  ex 
planation  of  his  changed  manner. 

One  fact  more,  which  seemed  to  have  special  signifi 
cance  in  its  bearing  upon  the  crime,  was  this  ; — in  the 
pocket  of  the  prisoner  at  the  time  of  his  seizure  was  found 
a  letter  purporting  to  be  from  the  murdered  Count,  and 
addressed  to  a  certain  Amedee  Brune.  It  was  a  tender 
letter,  full  of  expressions  of  devotion,  and  promising  that 
upon  a  day  not  very  far  distant,  the  writer  would  meet 
his  fair  one,  and  they  should  be  joined  together,  for  woe 
or  for  weal,  thenceforth,  through  life. 

The  letter  was  of  an  old  date — thirty  odd  years  ago 
it  had  been  written  ;  and  on  comparison  with  the  man 
uscript  of  the  Count  of  that  date,  gave  evidence  of  au 
thenticity.  Who  this  Amedee  Brune  might  be,  or  what 
relation  she  bore  to  the  criminal,  or  how  the  letter  came 
into  his  possession,  none  could  tell.  Those  who  had  been 
early  acquaintances  of  the  Count  had  never  so  much  as 
heard  a  mention  of  that  name.  A  few  went  so  far  as  to 
doubt  the  genuineness  of  his  signature.  He  had  been  a 
man  remarkable  for  his  quiet  and  studious  habits.  So 
far  as  the  knowledge  of  his  friends  extended,  no  passing 
gallantries  had  ever  relieved  the  monotony  of  his  life. 


276  SEVEN  STORIES. 

The  accused,  in  the  progress  of  the  inquiries  which 
had  elicited  these  facts,  had  maintained  a  dogged  silence, 
not  communicating  any  statement  of  importance  even  t'. 
his  legal  advisers.  The  sudden  illness  which  had  befal 
len  his  mother,  and  which  threatened  a  fatal  termi 
nation,  seemed  to  have  done  more  to  prostrate  his  hope 
and  courage  than  the  weight  of  the  criminal  accusa 
tion. 

The  fiancee,  meantime,  Mademoiselle  C ,  was, 

it  seems,  least  of  all  interested  in  the  fate  of  the  prisoner. 
Whether  incensed  by  his  change  of  manner,  or  stung  by 
jealousy,  it  was  certain  that  before  this  accusation  had 
been  urged  she  had  conceived  against  him  a  strong  an 
tipathy. 

Such  was  the  state  of  facts  developed  on  the  trial. 
The  jury  found  him  guilty  of  murder  ;  there  were  no  ex 
tenuating  circumstances,  and  there  was  no  recommen 
dation  to  mercy. 

After  the  condemnation  the  criminal  had  grown  more 
communicative.  Something  of  the  reckless  gayety  of 
bis  old  days  had  returned  for  a  time.  He  amused  him 
self  with  sketching  from  memory  some  of  the  heads  of 
Watteau's  nymphs  upon  his  prison  walls.  His  mother 
had  died,  fortunately,  only  a  few  days  after  the  render 
ing  of  the  verdict,  without  knowing,  however,  what  fate 
was  to  befal  her  son. 

It   was   rumored  that   when  this  event   was  u  ade 


ff  '  ''      Xk 

fe  UNIVERSITY 
EMILE  ROQ 


known  to  him  he  gave  way  to  passionate  tears,  and  send 
ing  for  the  priest,  made  a  full  confession  of  his  crime 
and  its  causes.  This  confession  had  occasioned  that  turij 
in  popular  sympathy  of  which  I  have  spoken.  The 
friends  of  the  Count,  however,  and  even  the  prisoner's 
own  legal  advisers  (as  I  was  told)  ,  regarded  it  as  only  <m 
ingenious  appeal  for  mercy. 

For  myself,  notwithstanding  the  lack  of  positive  evi 
dence  to  sustain  his  statements,  I  have  been  always  in 
clined  to  believe  his  story  a  true  one. 

The  main  points  in  his  confession  were  these  :  He 
had  loved  Virginie  C  -  ,  as  she  had  not  deserved  to  be 
loved.  He  was  happy  ;  he  had  fortune,  health,  every 
thing  to  insure  content.  Monsieur  C  -  welcomed 
him  to  his  family.  His  mother  rejoiced  in  the  cheer 
fulness  and  sunny  prospects  of  her  only  child.  His 
father  (he  knew  it  only  from  his  mother's  lips)  had  been 
a  general  in  the  wars  of  Napoleon,  and  had  died  before 
his  recollection. 

He  had  been  little  concerned  to  inquire  regarding  the 
character  or  standing  of  his  father,  until,  as  the  marriage 
day  approached,  it  became  necessary  to  secure  legal  tes 
timonials  respecting  his  patrimony  and  name. 

No  general  by  the  name  of  Roque  had  ever  served  in 
the  wars  of  Napoleon  or  in  the  armies  of  France  !  For 
the  first  time  the  laughing  dream  of  his  life  was  disturbed. 
'With  his  heart  full,  and  his  brain  on  fire,  he  appealed  to 


278  SEVEN  STORIES. 

his  mother  for  explanation.  She  had  none  to  giva. 
Amidst  tears  and  sobs,  uhe  truth  was  wrung  from  her, 
that  he — the  gay-hearted  Emile,  whose  life  was  full  of 
promise — could  claim  no  legal  parentage.  But  the  man 
who  had  so  wronged  both  him  and  herself  was  still  alive  ] 
and,  with  the  weakness  of  her  sex,  she  assured  him  that 
he  was  of  noble  birth,  and  had  never  shown  tenderness 
toward  any  woman  save  herself. 

Who  was  this  noble  father,  on  whose  riches  the  son 
was  living?  No  entreaties  or  threats  could  win  this  secret 
from  the  mother. 

Then  it  was  that  the  change  had  come  over  the 
character  of  Emile ;  then  it  was  that  he  had  deserted 
the  smiling  nymphs  of  Watteau  for  the  despairing  cast 
away  of  Gericault.  Too  proud  to  bring  a  tarnished  es 
cutcheon  to  his  marriage  rites ;  doubting  if  that  stain 
would  not  cause  both  father  and  daughter  to  relent,  he 
had  himself  urged  the  postponement  of  the  legal  arrange 
ments.  One  slight  hope — slighter  than  that  belonging  to 
the  castaway  of  the  wrecked  Medusa — sustained  him. 
The  mother  (she  avowed  it  with  tears  and  with  grief) 
had  become  such  only  under  solemn  promise  of  marriage 
from  one  she  had  never  doubted. 

To  find  this  recreant  father  was  now  the  aim  of  the 
crazed  life  of  Emile.  With  this  frail  hope  electrifying 
his  despair,  he  pushed  his  inquiries  secretly  in  every  quar 
ter,  and  solaced  his  thought  with  his  impassioned  work 
in  the  corner  salon  of  the  Louvre. 


EM1LE  ROQUE.  279 

In  the  chamber  of  his  mother  was  a  little  escritoire, 
kept  always  closed  and  locked.  His  suspicions,  after  a 
time,  attached  themselves  there.  He  broke  the  fasten 
ings,  and  found  within  a  miniature,  a  lock  of  hair,  a 
packet  of  letters,  signed — De  Roquefort.  Of  these  last 
he  kept  only  one  ;  the  others  he  destroyed  as  so  many  to 
kens  of  his  shame. 

That  fatal  one  he  bore  with  him  away  from  Paris, 
out  from  the  influence  of  his  mother.  He  pushed  his 
inquiries  with  the  insidious  cunning  of  a  man  crazed  by 
a  single  thought.  He  found  at  length  the  real  address 
of  the  Count  de  Roquefort.  He  hurried  to  his  pres 
ence,  bearing  always  with  him  the  letter  of  promise,  so 
ruthlessly  broken. 

The  Count  was  startled  by  his  appearance,  and 
startled  still  more  by  the  wildness  of  his  story  and  of 
his  demands.  The  son  asked  the  father  to  make  good, 
at  this  late  day,  the  promise  of  his  youth.  The  Count 
replied  evasively ;  he  promised  to  assist  the  claimant 
with  money,  and  with  his  influence,  and  would  engage 
to  make  him  heir  to  the  larger  part  of  his  fortune. 

All  this  fell  coldly  upon  the  ear  of  the  excited  Emile, 
He  wished  restitution  to  his  mother.  Nothing  less 
could  be  listened  to. 

The  Count  urged  the  scandal  which  would  grow  out 
of  such  a  measure ;  with  his  years  and  reputation,  he 
could  not  think  of  exposing  himself  to  the  ribald  tongues 


280  SEVEN  STORIES. 

of  the  world.  Moreover,  the  publicity  which  must 
necessarily  belong  to  the  marriage  would,  he  consider 
ed,  be  of  serious  injury  to  Emile  himself.  The  fact  of 
his  illegitimacy  was  unknown ;  the  old  relation  of  hia 
mother  to  himself  was  a  secret  one  ;  the  obstacles  which 
might  now  lie  in  the  way  of  his  own  marriage  to  Vir- 

ginie  C were  hardly  worth  consideration,  when 

compared  with  the  inconvenience  which  would  folloAv  a 
public  exposure  of  the  circumstances.  He  set  before 
Emile  the  immense  advantages  of  the  fortune  which  he 
would  secure  to  him  on  his  (the  Count's)  death,  provid 
ed  only  he  was  content  to  forbear  his  urgence  as  re 
garded  his  mother. 

Emile  listened  coldly,  calmly.  There  was  but  one 
thought  in  his  mind — only  one  hope  ;  there  must  be 
restitution  to  his  mother,  or  he  would  take  justice  in  his 
own  hands.  The  Count  must  make  good  his  promise, 
or  the  consequences  would  be  fatal.  He  gave  the  Count 
two  days  for  reflection. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  he  returned,  prepared  for 
any  emergency.  The  Count  had  utterly  refused  him 
justice  :  he  had  uttered  his  own  death-warrant. 

His  mother  was  no  longer  living,  to  feel  the  sting  of 
the  exposure.  For  himself,  he  had  done  all  in  his  pow 
er  to  make  her  name  good :  he  had  no  ties  to  the  world  ; 
he  TV  as  ready  for  the  worst. 

Such  was  the  relation  of  Emile ;  and  there  was  a 


EMILE  ROQUE.  281 

coherency  about  it,  and  an  agreement  with  the  main 
facts  established  by  evidence,  which  gave  it  an  air  of 
great  probability. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  alleged  by  the  friends 
of  the  Count  that  such  a  relation  on  his  part  never  could 
have  existed  ;  that  not  the  slightest  evidence  of  it  could 
be  found  among  his  papers,  nor  did  the  recollection  of 
his  oldest  friends  offer  the  smallest  confirmation.  The 
reported  conversations  of  Emile  with  the  Count  were, 
they  contended,  only  an  ingenious  fiction. 

Singularly  enough,  there  was  nothing  among  the 
effects  of  the  deceased  Madame  Roque  to  confirm  the  al 
legation  that  she  had  ever  borne  the  name  of  Amedee 
Brune.  She  had  been  known  only  to  her  oldest  ac 
quaintances  of  the  capital  as  Madame  Roque :  of  her 
previous  history  nothing  could  be  ascertained. 

The  solitary  exclamation  of  that  lady,  "  II  s'yperd  I " 
was  instanced  as  proof  that  Emile  was  laboring  under  a 
grievous  delusion. 

Notwithstanding  this,  my  own  impression  was  that 
Emile  had  executed  savage  justice  upon  the  betrayer 
of  his  mother. 


282  SEVEN  STORIES. 


V. 


ON  the  month  of  March—a  very  cold  month  in 
that  year — I  had  returned  to  Paris,  and  taken 
up  my  old  quarters  in  a  hotel  garni  of  the  Rue  des 
Beaux-Arts. 

Any  public  interest  or  curiosity  which  had  belonged 
to  the  trial  and  story  of  Emile  Roque  had  passed  away. 
French  journalists  do  not  keep  alive  an  interest  of  that 
sort  by  any  reports  upon  the  condition  of  the  prisoner. 
They  barely  announce  the  execution  of  his  sentence  upon 
the  succeeding  day.  I  had,  by  accident  only,  heard  of 
his  occasional  occupation  in  sketching  the  heads  of 
some  of  Watteau's  nymphs  upon  the  walls  of  his  cell. 
I  could  scarce  believe  this  of  him.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  his  fancy  would  run  rather  in  the  direction  of  the 
horrors  of  G  ericault. 

I  felt  an  irresistible  desire  to  see  him  once  again. 
There  was  no  hope  of  this,  except  I  should  be  present 
at  his  execution.  I  had  never  witnessed  an  execution  ; 
had  never  cared  to  witness  one.  But  I  wished  to  look 
once  more  on  the  face  of  Emile  Roque. 

The  executions  in  Paris  take  place  without  public 
announcement,  and  usually  at  daybreak,  upon  the 
square  fronting  the  great  prison  of  La  Roquette.  No 
order  is  issued  until  a  late  hour  on  the  preceding  even 


EMILE  ROQUE.  283 

ing,  when  the  state  executioner  is  directed  to  have  the 
guillotine  brought  at  midnight  to  the  prison  square,  and 
a  corps  of  soldiery  is  detailed  for  special  service  (un- 
mentioned)  in  that  quarter  of  the  city.  My  only  chance 
of  witnessing  the  scene  was  in  arranging  with  one  of 
the  small  wine-merchants,  who  keep  open  house  in  that 
neighborhood  until  after  midnight,  to  dispatch  a  messen 
ger  to  me  whenever  he  should  see  preparations  com 
menced. 

This  arrangement  I  effected;  and  on  the  22d  of 
March  I  was  roused  from  sleep  at  a  little  before  one  in 
the  morning  by  a  bearded  man,  who  had  felt  his  way 
up  the  long  flight  of  stairs  to  my  rooms,  and  informed 
me  that  the  guillotine  had  arrived  before  the  prison  of 
Roquette. 

My  thought  flashed  on  the  instant  to  the  figure  of 
Emile  as  I  had  seen  him  before  the  shepherdesses  of 
Watteau — as  I  had  seen  him  before  the  picture  of  the 
Shipwreck.  I  dressed  hurriedly,  and  groped  my  way 
below.  The  night  was  dark  and  excessively  cold.  A 
little  sleet  had  fallen,  which  crumpled  under  my  feet  as 
I  made  my  way  toward  the  quay.  Arrived  there,  not 
n  cab  was  to  be  found  at  the  usual  stand  ;  so  I  pushed 
on  across  the  river,  and  under  the  archway  of  the  pal 
ace  of  the  Louvre, — casting  my  eye  toward  that  wing  of 
the  great  building  where  I  had  first  seen  the  face  which 
I  was  shortly  to  look  on  for  the  last  time  on  earth. 


284  SEVEN  STORIES. 

Finding  no  cabs  in  the  square  before  the  palace,  1 
ttent  on  through  the  dark  streets  of  St.  Anne  and 
Grammont,  until  I  reached  the  Boulevard.  A  few  voi- 
tures  de  remise  were  opposite  the  Cafo  Foy.  I  appeal 
ed  to  the  drivers  of  two  of  them  in  vain,  and  only  suc 
ceeded  by  a  bribe  in  inducing  a  third  to  drive  me  to  the 
Place  de  la  Roquctte.  It  is  a  long  way  from  the  centre 
of  Paris,  under  the  shadow  almost  of  Pcre  la  Chaise.  I 
tried  to  keep  some  reckoning  of  the  streets  through 
which  we  passed,  but  I  could  not.  Sometimes  my  eye 
fell  upon  what  seemed  a  familiar  corner,  but  in  a  moment 
all  was  strange  again.  The  lamps  appeared  to  me 
to  burn  dimly ;  the  houses  along  the  way  grew 
smaller  and  smaller.  From  time  to  time,  I  saw  a  wine 
shop  still  open ;  but  not  a  soul  was  moving  on  the 
streets  with  the  exception  of,  here  and  there,  a  brace  of 
ser  gents  de  ville.  At  length  we  seemed  to  have  passed 
out  of  the  range  even  of  the  city  patrol,  and  I  was  be 
ginning  to  entertain  very  unpleasant  suspicions  of  the 
cabman,  and  of  the  quarter  into  which  he  might  be  tak 
ing  me  at  that  dismal  hour  of  the  night,  when  he  drew 
up  his  horse  before  a  little  wine-shop,  which  I  soon 
recognized  as  the  one  where  I  had  left  my  order  for  the 
dispatch  of  the  night's  messenger. 

I  knew  now  that  the  guillotine  was  near. 

As  I  alighted  I  could  see,  away  to  my  right,  the  dim 
Outline  of  the  prison  looming  against  the  night  sky,  with 


EMILE  ROQUE.  285 

not  a  single  light  in  its  gratings.  The  broad  square  be 
fore  it  was  sheeted  over  with  sleet,  and  the  leafless  trees 
that  girdled  it  round  stood  ghost-like  in  the  snow. 
Through  the  branches,  and  not  far  from  the  prison  gates, 
I  could  see,  in  the  gray  light  (for  it  was  now  hard  upon 
three  o'clock),  a  knot  of  persons  collected  around  a 
frame-work  of  timber,  which  I  knew  must  be  the  guil 
lotine. 

I  made  my  way  there,  the  frozen  surface  crumpling 
under  my  steps.  The  workmen  had  just  finished  their 
arrangements.  Two  of  the  city  police  were  there,  to 
preserve  order,  and  to  prevent  too  near  an  approach  of 
the  loiterers  from  the  wine-shops — who  may  have  been, 
perhaps,  at  this  hour,  a  dozen  in  number. 

I  could  pass  near  enough  to  observe  fully  the  con 
struction  of  the  machine.  There  was,  first,  a  broad 
platform,  perhaps  fifteen  feet  square,  supported  by  mov 
able  tressle-work,  and  elevated  some  six  or  seven  feet 
from  the  ground.  A  flight  of  plank  steps  led  up  to  this, 
broad  enough  for  three  to  walk  upon  abreast.  Immedi 
ately  before  the  centre  of  these  steps,  upon  the  platform, 
was  stretched  what  seemed  a  trough  of  plank  ;  and  from 
the  farther  end  of  this  trough  rose  two  strong  uprights 
of  timber,  perhaps  ten  feet  in  height.  These  were  con 
nected  at  the  top  by  a  slight  frame-work  ;  and  immedi- 
.  ately  below  this,  by  the  light  of  a  solitary  street  lamp 
which  flickered  near  by,  I  could  see  the  glistening  of  the 


286  SEVEN  STORIES. 

knife.  Beside  the  trough-like  box  was  placed  a  lon£ 
willow  oasket :  its  shape  explained  to  me  its  purpose. 
At  the  end  of  the  trough,  and  beyond  the  upright  tim 
bers,  was  placed  a  tub :  with  a  shudder,  I  recognized 
its  purpose  also. 

The  prison  gates  were  only  a  few  rods  distant  from 
the  steps  to  the  scaffold,  and  directly  opposite  them. 
They  were  still  closed  and  dark. 

The  execution,  I  learned,  was  to  take  place  at  six. 
A  few  loiterers,  mostly  in  blouses,  came  up  from  time 
to  time  to  join  the  group  about  the  scaffold. 

By  four  o'clock  there  was  the  sound  of  tramping 
feet,  one  or  two  quick  words  of  command,  and  present 
ly  a  battalion  of  the  Municipal  Guard,  without  drum 
beat,  marched  in  at  the  lower  extremity  of  the  square, 
approached  the  scaffold,  and  having  stacked  their  arms, 
loitered  with  the  rest. 

Lights  now  began  to  appear  at  the  windows  of  the 
prison.  A  new  corps  of  police  came  up  and  cleared  a 
wider  space  around  the  guillotine.  A  cold  gray  light 
stole  slowly  over  the  eastern  sky. 

By  five  o'clock  the  battalion  of  the  Guards  had  form 
ed  a  hedge  of  bayonets  from  either  side  of  the  prison 
doDrs,  extending  beyond  and  inclosing  the  scaffold.  A 
squadron  of  mounted  men  had  also  come  upon  the 
ground,  and  was  drawn  up  in  line,  a  short  distance  :>n 
one  side.  Two  officials  appeared  now  upon  the  sca£ 


SMILE  ROQUK  287 

told,  and  gave  trial  to  the  knife.  They  let  s.lip  the  cord 
or  chain  which  held  it  to  its  place,  and  the  knife  fell 
with  a  quick,  sharp  clang,  that  I  thought  must  have 
reached  to  ears  within  the  walls  of  the  prison.  Twice 
more  they  made  their  trial,  and  twice  more  I  heard  the 
clang. 

Meantime  people  were  gathering.  Market-women 
bound  for  the  city  lingered  at  sight  of  the  unusual  spec 
tacle,  and  a  hundred  or  more  soldiers  from  a  neighbor 
ing  barrack  had  now  joined  the  crowd  of  lookers-on.  A 
few  women  from  the  near  houses  had  brought  their 
children ;  and  a  half-dozen  boys  had  climbed  into  the 
trees  for  a  better  view. 

At  intervals,  from  the  position  which  I  held,  I  could 
see  the  prison  doors  open  for  a  moment,  and  the  light 
of  a  lantern  within,  as  some  officer  passed  in  or  out. 

I  remember  that  I  stamped  the  ground  petulantly— 
it  was  so  cold.  Again  and  again  I  looked  at  my  watch. 

Fifteen  minutes  to  six  ! 

It  was  fairly  daylight  now,  though  the  morning  was 
dark  and  cloudy,  and  a  fine,  searching  mist  was  in  the 
air. 

A  man  in  blouse  placed  a  bag  of  saw-dust  at  the 
foot  of  the  gallows.     The  crowd  must  have  now  nun* 
bered  a  thousand.     An  old  market-woman  stood  next 
me.     She  saw  me  look  at  my  watch,  and  asked  the 
hour. 


288  SEVEN  STORIES. 

"  Eight  minutes  to  six." 

"  Mon  Dieu ;  huit  minutes  encore  I "  She  was  eager 
for  the  end. 

I  could  have  counted  time  now  by  the  beating  of  my 
heart. 

What  was  Emile  Roque  doing  within  those  doors  ? 
praying?  struggling?  was  the  face  of  the  castaway  on 
him  ?  I  could  not  separate  him  now  from  that  fearful 
picture  ;  I  was  straining  my  vision  to  catch  a  glimpse — 
not  of  Emile  Roque — but  of  the  living  counterpart  of 
that  terrible  expression  which  he  had  wrought — wild, 
aimless  despair. 

Two  minutes  of  six. 

I  saw  a  hasty  rush  of  men  to  the  parapet  that  topped 
the  prison  wall ;  they  leaned  there,  looking  over. 

I  saw  a  stir  about  the  prison  gates,  and  both  were 
flung  wide  open. 

There  was  a  suppressed  murmur  around  me — "  Le 
void  !  Le  void  I  "  I  saw  him  coming  forward  between 
two  officers  ;  he  wore  no  coat  or  waistcoat,  and  his  shirt 
was  rolled  back  from  his  throat ;  his  arms  were  pin 
ioned  behind  him  ;  his  bared  neck  was  exposed  to  the 
frosty  March  air  ;  his  face  was  pale — deathly  pale,  yet 
it  was  calm ;  I  recognized  not  the  castaway,  but  the 
man — Emile  Roque. 

There  was  a  moment  between  the  prison  gates  and 
the  foot  of  the  scaffold ;  he  kissed  the  crucifix,  which  a 


EMILE  ROQUE.  289 

priest  handed  him,  and  mounted  with  a  firm  step.  I 
know  not  how,  but  in  an  instant  he  seemed  to  fall,  his 
head  toward  the  knife — under  the  knife. 

My  eyes  fell.  I  heard  the  old  woman  beside  me 
say  passionately,  "  Mon  Dieu !  il  ne  veut  pas  I " 

I  looked  toward  the  scaffold ;  at  that  supreme  mo 
ment  the  brute  instinct  in  him  had  rallied  for  a  last 
struggle.  Pinioned  as  he  was,  he  had  lifted  up  his 
brawny  shoulders  and  withdrawn  his  neck  from  the  fa 
tal  opening.  Now  indeed,  his  face  wore  the  terrible 
expression  of  the  picture.  Hate,  fear,  madness,  despair, 
were  blended  in  his  look. 

But  the  men  mastered  him ;  they  thrust  him  down  ; 
I  could  see  him  writhe  vainly.  My  eyes  fell  again. 

I  heard  a  clang — a  thud ! 

There  was  a  movement  in  the  throng  around  me. 
"When  I  looked  next  at  the  scaffold,  a  man  in  blouse 
was  sprinkling  saw-dust  here  and  there.  Two  others 
were  lifting  the  long  willow  basket  into  a  covered  cart. 
I  could  see  now  that  the  guillotine  was  painted  of  a  dull 
red  color,  so  that  no  blood  stains  would  show. 

I  moved  away  with  the  throng,  the  sleet  crumpling 
under  my  feet. 

I  could  eat  nothing  that  day.  I  could  not  sleep  on 
the  following  night. 

The  bloodshot  eyes  and  haggard  look  of  the  picture 
13 


290  SEVEN  STORIES. 

which  had  at  the  last — as  I  felt  it  would  be — been  made 
real  in  the  man,  haunted  me. 

I  never  go  now  to  the  gallery  of  the  Louvre  but  I 
shun  the  painting  of  the  wrecked  Medusa  as  I  would 
shun  a  pestilence. 


THE  ATTIC: 


UNDER    THE    ROOF. 


THE  ATTIC: 


Under  the  Roof. 

J  CANNOT  but  think  it  very  odd — the  distinctness 
with  which  I  remember  the  little  speech  which  the 
head-master  of  our  school  made  to '  us  boys/  on  a  Novem 
ber  morning— just  after  prayer-time — twenty-odd  years 
ago  !  He  gave  an  authoritative  rap  with  the  end  of  his 
ruler  upon  the  desk — glared  about  the  room  a  moment, 
through  his  spectacles, — as  if  to  awe  us  into  a  due  atti 
tude  of  attention,  and  then  spoke  in  this  wise  ; — "  Those 
boys  who  sleep  in  the  attic — (a  long  pause  here,)  should 
understand  that  they  are  expected  to  conduct  themselves 
like  gentlemen,  and  set  a  proper  example  to  the  rest  of 
the  school.  (I  think  he  singled  out  Judkins  and  Barton 
here,  with  a  sharp  look  over  the  rim  of  his  glasses.) 
Last  night  I  am  very  sorry  to  say  there  was  great  dis 
order.  Several  large  field-pumpkins  (a  very  percep- 


294  SEVEN  STORIES. 

tible  titter  here  along  the  benches,  which  the  head-mas 
ter  represses  by  a  '  rat-tatr-tat '  from  the  ruler) — several 
large  field-pumpkins  were  rolled  through  the  corridor  at 
a  late  hour  of  the  night,  and  finally  were  tumbled  down 
the  attic  stairs — disturbing  the  sleep  of  the  quiet  boys, 
and  alarming  the  household.  I  hope  the  conduct  will 
not  be  repeated." 

As  I  had  not  at  that  day  been  promoted  to  the  attic, 
but  classed  myself  with  the  quiet  ones  whose  sleep  had 
been  disturbed,  I  listened  with  a  good  deal  of  modest 
coolness  to  this  speech  :  indeed  the  master,  as  he  step 
ped  down  from  the  platform,  patted  me  approvingly  on 
the  head  (I  being  conveniently  posted  to  receive  that 
mark  of  regard),  and  I  could  not  but  reproach  myself 
thereupon,  for  the  glee  with  which  I,  in  company  with  a 
few  others  who  were  in  the  secret,  had  listened  for  the 
bowling  pumpkins  as  they  came  bounding  down  the 
stairs  the  night  before. 

The  real  culprits  of  the  attic,  however,  were  Jud- 
kins,  Barton  and  Russel ;  and  I  looked  upon  these  ring 
leaders,  I  remember,  with  a  good  deal  of  awe — wonder 
ing  if  their  misdeeds  and  great  daring  would  not  some 
day  bring  them  to  the  penitentiary. 

I  am  happy  to  say,  however,  that  they  have  thus  far 
escaped :  One  of  them,  Russel,  is  indeed  an  active  poli 
tician  ;  but  the  others  are  quite  safe.  Judkins,  who 
leered  in  such  a  way  that  morning  at  his  chum, — as  I 


UNDER   THE  ROOF.  295 

thought  the  very  height  of  youthful  address  and  villainy, 
is  now  the  stout  rector  of  a  flourishing  church  some 
where  in  one  of  the  Middle  States ;  and  wears,  I  am 
told  the  most  dignified  figure — in  his  gown— of  any 
clergyman  of  his  Diocese. 

Barton  I  had  neither  seen  nor  heard  of  in  many 
years.  He  was  of  British  parentage,  and  there  was  a 
rumor  that  at  his  father's  death,  which  occurred  shortly 
after  those  school-days  to  which  I  have  referred,  he  had 
gone  back  with  his  mother,  to  the  old  country.  Wheth 
er  the  rumor  was  well  founded  or  not,  I  probably  never 
should  have  been  informed,  had  it  not  been  for  certain 
incidents  hinted  at  under  mention  of  "  my  old  school 
mate  of  the  Attic,"  in  the  little  fat  English  note-book 
spoken  of  in  the  opening  chapters,  and  which  is  just 
now  lying  under  my  hand.  I  will  try  to  group  those 
incidents  together  carefully  enough  to  make  a  half-story 
— if  nothing  more. 

I  was  bowling  down  through  Devonshire  upon  a 
coach  top — it  was  before  the  time  of  the  South  Devon 
rail-way  —  somewhere  between  Exeter  and  Totness, 
when  my  attention  was  arrested  by  a  rubicund-faced 
man  sitting  behind  me,  and  who  wore  a  communicative 
ness  of  look,  which  anywhere  in  England,  it  is  quite 
refreshing  and  startling  to  behold.  I  fell  speedily  into 
conversation  with  him,  and  at  almost  every  ~w  ord  de 
tected  traces  of  a  voice  I  had  some  day  listened  t(  before  ; 


296  &EVJEN  STORIES. 

they  were  traces  o^  the  old  boy  of  the  attic.  An  allu 
sion  or  two  to  other-side  matters — most  of  all  the  nam 
ing  of  the  little  village  where  the  great  school  crowned 
the  hill — opened  his  memory  like  a  book.  It  was  Bar 
ton  himself.  Having  been  one  of  the  junior  boys,  my 
own  face  was  not  so  familiar  to  him ;  for  a  pretty  long 
period  in  life  we  study  only  the  faces  before  us ;  but 
when  members  of  the  younger  ranks  begin  to  crowd  us, 
we  look  back  with  some  scrutiny  to  find  what  manner 
of  men  they  are. 

Howbeit  we  fell  now  into  most  easy  and  familiar 
chat ;  we  went  back  to  the  days  of ;  taw '  and  roundabouts 
as  easily  as  a  cloud  drifts.  I  think  our  companions  of 
the  coach  top  must  have  been  immensely  mystified  by 
our  talk  about  the  "  Principal"  and  his  daughters  and 
his  sons — one  of  whom  was  the  pattern  of  all  mischief. 
How  we  roared  that  day  as  we  compared  recollections 
about  the  plethoric,  thick-set,  irascible  farmer  whose 
orchard  lay  unfortunately  contiguous  to  the  play-ground  ! 
How  we  probed  the  mysteries  of  the  smoky,  reeking 
kitchen  and  brought  up  to  light  the  old  chef  de  cuisine 
(poor  woman,  she  is  dead  this  many  a  day)  with  her 
top-knot  curls  and  her  flying  cap-strings !  And  I  am 
persuaded  that  those  "  field-pumpkins  "  rumbling  down 
the  attic  stairs,  did  not  give  more  innocent  merriment  to 
any  listener  on  the  eventful  night,  than  to  us  old  boys — 
that  day  in  Devon-  Of  course  we  had  our  little  obser* 


UNDER   THE  ROOF.  297 

vations  to  make  about  our  old  friend  Judkins  and  his 
rectorship  ;  and  if  they  were  not  altogether  such  as  hip 
lady  admirers  of  the  parish  (of  whom  I  am  told  he  has 
a  warm  galaxy)  might  commend, — they  were  at  least 
honest  and  cheery,  and  respectful  to  the  man,  and  still 
more  respectful,  I  trust,  to  the  great  cause  in  which  he 
is  a  worker. 

Afterward,  as  our  hilarity  subsided  somewhat,  we 
fell  into  talk  about  our  own  personal  history — a  subject 
which,  so  far  as  I  have  observed,  is  apt  to  command, 
whenever  approached,  a  certain  degree  of  seriousness. 
It  is  aU  very  well  to  be  merry  at  the  recollection  of 
some  old  school-mate,  who  has  recklessly  married  and 
gone  astray, — or  of  one  who  is  putting  all  his  thews  and 
muscle  to  the  strain  of  a  contest  with  some  great  giant 
of  worldly  trouble  (it  mattering  very  little  whether  the 
giant  is  imaginary  or  real) — or  of  another,  floating 
about  in  weary  idleness  and  bachelorhood,  seeming 
very  chirruppy  on  the  surface — a  surface  which  is  apt  to 
gloss  over  a  great  many  tormenting  fires.  This  sort  of 
observation,  as  I  said,  we  can  conduct  with  a  certain 
degree  of  cheery  warmth  and  abandon ; — it  concerns 
our  neighbors'  gold  fields,  not  ours ; — but  when  we 
come  to  compare  notes  about  the  value  of  our  own 
working  veins,  and  to  confess  the  small  weight  and 
richness  of  ore  we  have  brought  up  after  all  our  digging, 
—it  breeds  a  seriousness.  We  smile  at  thought  of  tha 
13* 


298  SEVEN  SI  ORIES. 

rector  in  connection  with  his  boyish  wildness  ;  but  have 
we  any  rectorship — any  parish  that  looks  to  us  for  guid 
ance?  We  crack  our  little  jokes  at  mention  of  poor 
Tom  Steady  fighting  wearily  his  long  battle  with  the 
world  with  wife  and  children  tugging  at  his  skirts  ;— 
have  we  any  such  battle  to  fight?  or  if  we  had,  should 
we  fight  it  as  patiently  as  he  ? 

There  was  not  very  much  to  interest  in  my  part  of 
the  discourse,  into  which  the  current  of  our  chat  fell, 
there  upon  the  Devon  coach — since  up  to  that  date,  I 
had  been  living  only  a  drifting  life  of  invalid  vagabond 
age.  The  rubicund  face  of  Barton  told  a  different  sto 
ry.  He  was,  if  I  remember  rightly,  concerned  in  some 
manufacturing  interest  near  to  the  old  town  of  Modbury  ; 
he  had  a  pleasant  cottage  thereabout  among  the  hills,  to 
which  he  gave  me  a  very  cordial  invitation. 

I  rejoiced  in  his  pleasant  establishment :  he  must  be 
married — of  course  ? 

"  Yes  ,"  he  says,  with  some  coyness — "  mar 
ried  ; "  and  he  continues  in  a  lowered  tone,  and  with 
an  embarrassment,  I  thought,  in  his  manner — "  there 
are  some  inconvenient  circumstances  however  : — to  tell 
you  the  truth,  my  wife  is  not  living  with  me  at  present ; 
so  if  you  drive  over,  I  can  give  you  only  a  bachelor 
welcome." 

"  Ah  !"  (what  could  I  say  more?) 

There  is  a  pause  for  a  while  in  our  talk.  At  length 
Barton  breaks  in  : — 


UNDER   THE  ROOF.  29C. 

"  Looks  awkwardly,  I  de'say  ?  " 

"Well— it  does." 

"  It  is  awkward,"  said  he,  with  some  feeling ;  "  it 
worries  me  excessively." 

"  I'm  not  surprised,"  I  ventured  to  say ;  but  farther 
than  this  I  made  no  observation.  If  there  is  one  bit  of 
counsel  which  is  absolutely  sound,  both  for  friends  and 
strangers,  it  is — never  to  meddle  with  quarrels  between 
husband  and  wife ;  domestic  troubles  are  a  great  deal 
more  apt  to  cure  themselves  than  they  are  to  be  cured 
by  outsiders.  I  was  not  sorry  to  find  that,  by  the  time 
the  conversation  had  reached  this  critical  stage,  the 
coach  had  drawn  up  by  the  inn-door,  near  to  the  mar 
ket-cross  of  the  old  town  of  Totness,  to  which  place  I 
had  booked  myself.  I  shook  hands  with  my  newly- 
found  acquaintance,  promising  to  pay  him  an  early  visit. 

It  was  quite  certain  that  he  was  not  growing  thin 
under  the  '  worry ; '  I  think  I  never  met  with  a  better 
candidate  for  acceptance  by  the  Life  Insurance  people. 
Presentable  withal ;  not  over  six  and  thirty  at  the 
outside ;  amiable  in  his  expression — though  this  to  be 
sure  is  a  very  doubtful  indication  of  character.  Possi 
bly  the  wife  was  a  victim  to  the  entertainment  of  jealous 
fancies ;  for  I  could  not  but  admit,  that  there  was  a 
good  deal  of  the  air  of  a  c  gallant,  gay  Lothario/  about 
my  friend  Barton. 

I  think  I  must  have  passed  a  fortnight  or  three 


300  SEVEN  STORIES. 

weeks  at  a  little  village  in  the  neighborhood — strolling 
up  and  down  the  hillsides  that  are  kept  constantly  he- 
greened  by  a,  thousand  irrigating  streamlets, — indulging 
in  an  occasional  idle  canter  along  the  country  roads , 
and  once,  at  least,  whipping  a  lazy  meadow-stretch  of 
the  Erme  river  with  tackle  I  had  borrowed  at  the  inn  ; 
and  long  ago  as  the  visit  was  made,  I  think  I  could  find 
my  way  now  to  a  certain  pool,  not  far  below  the  Erme- 
bridge  on  the  Modbury  road,  and  within  sight  of  Fleet- 
wood  House,  where  upon  a  good  day,  and  with  a  good 
wind  at  one's  back,  I  think  an  adroit  fly-fisher  might  be 
very  sure  of  a  pound  ;  strike.' 

But  even  such  pleasant  employment  did  not  drive 
wholly  out  of  mind  Barton,  his  solitary  home  at  Clum 
ber  cottage,  and  my  promised  visit.  So  I  named  a  day 
to  him  by  post,  and  received  a  warm  reply — setting 
forth  however  his  request  that  I  would  make  "  no  allu 
sion  to  the  unpleasant  circumstance  mentioned  in  the 
coach-drive — more  particularly  as  he  was  rated  by  all  the 
members  of  his  present  establishment,  and  by  the  neigh 
borhood,  only  as  a  gay  bachelor.  Bating  this  little  awk 
wardness,"  he  continued,  in  this  note,  "  I  shall  hope  to 
give  you  a,  fricassee  that  will  equal  that  of  the  old  chef  de 
cuisine  under  whose  presiding  curls  and  cap  we  broke 
bread  together  last." 

I  drove  down  in  a  jaunty  dog-cart  with  which  they 
equipped  me  at  the  inn.  Clumber  Cottage  was  neithel 


UNDER    THE  ROOF.  301 

a  large  nor  a  pretentious  establishment ;  there  was  a 
tidy  array  of  gravel  walks  ;  great  piles  of  luxuriant  rho 
dodendron  and  Spanish  laurel ;  a  gray  stone  cottage 
with  its  flanking  stable,  half  hidden  in  a  copse  of  ever 
greens  ;  cosy  rooms  with  a  large  flow  of  sunshine  into 
thoir  southern  windows ;  a  perfect  snuggery  in  short, 
where  I  found  as  hospitable  welcome  as  it  was  possible 
for  a  single  man  to  give. 

I  shall  not  dwell  upon  the  strolls  and  upon  the  talk 
we  indulged  in  on  that  mild  February  day.  The  course 
of  neither  threw  any  new  light  upon  the  matter  which 
had  so  piqued  my  curiosity.  A  snug  and  quiet  dinner 
with  its  salmon,  its  haunch  of  exquisite  Dartmoor  mut 
ton,  its  ruby  glow  of  sherry  in  the  master's  cups,  and  its 
fragrant  bouquet  of  Latour  chased  away  the  early  hours 
of  evening.  A  tidy  waiting  maid  attended  us,  whose 
face,  I  am  free  to  confess — after  a  good  deal  of  not  in 
curious  observation, — was  of  a  degree  of  plainness  which 
must  have  proved  satisfactory  to  the  most  capricious  and 
despotic  of  wives. 

I  bade,  as  I  supposed,  a  final  adieu  to  my  host  ntxt 
morning,  and  set  off  on  my  return  to  Totness,  and 
thence  to  Exeter.  Barton  had  undoubtedly  made  a  ter 
ribly  false  step — not  of  a  character  to  be  talked  of ;  and 
though  I  pitied  him  sincerely,  I  could  not  help  thinking 
that  he  wore  his  disappointment  with  extraordinary  res 
olution  and  appetite. 


802  SEVEN  STORIES. 

The  cold  fogs  of  Exeter,  a  cough,  and  the  advice  of 
a  friendly  physician,  drove  me  back  again  to  one  of  those 
little  bights  along  the  Channel  shore  where  the  sun 
makes  an  almost  Mediterranean  mildness  even  in  win 
ter.  Ten  days  after  my  dinner  with  Barton,  I  found 
myself  established  in  two  delightful  rooms  just  under 
the  roof  of  a  lodging  house  in  Torquay.  Vines  clam 
bered  over  the  windows,  and  shook  their  tresses  of  rich 
ivy  leaves  on  either  side,  as  I  looked  out  upon  the  bay, 
which  lay  below — fair,  and  clear  and  smooth,  with  a  score 
or  more  of  fishing  boats  lying  drawn  up  on  the  lip  of  the 
sands  by  Paignton,  and  beyond.  This  cosy  wintering 
place  for  delicate  people,  is  in  fact  so  nestled  into  the 
flank  of  a  protecting  circuit  of  hills,  that  on  all  the  little 
terraces  where  cottages  find  lodgement,  you  may  see 
lemon  trees  and  the  oleander  blooming  out  of  doors  in 
winter.  A  harsh  storm  may  indeed  compel  special  and 
temporary  protection  ;  but  a  sunny  day  and  a  south-east 
wind  bring  such  budding  spring  again  as  can  be  found 
nowhere  else  in  England. 

In  such  a  place,  of  course,  eyery  lodging  house  has 
its  little  company — not  necessarily  known  to  each  other, 
but  meeting  day  after  day  in  the  entrance  hall,  or  in  the 
pi  etty  green  yard,  set  off  with  flowers  and  shrubbery, 
which  lies  before  the  entrance  door. 

Upon  the  same  floor  with  myself  was  another  single 
lodger  who  was  thorouglily  English,  I  think,  in  all  that 


UNDER   THE  ROOF.  803 

regarded  his  morkl  qualities  ;  but  physically,  a  very  poor 
type — inasmuch  as  he  was  a  weazen,  dyspeptic,  dried 
man,  who  wore  yellow  gaiters,  a  spotted  cravat,  and  a 
huge  eye  glass  dangling  at  the  top  button  hole  of  his 
waistcoat.  His  calls  upon  the  waiting  maid,  Mary, 
were  most  inordinate  and  irrepressible — sometimes  for 
hot  water,  sometimes  for  cold — the  hot  water  being  al 
ways  too  hot,  and  the  cold  not  cold  enough  ;  I  think  he 
would  have  driven  the  poor  girl  mad  with  his  fretful- 
ness,  if  he  had  not  anointed  her  palm  from  week  to 
week  with  a  crown  or  two  of  service  money.  I  sometimes 
took  my  coffee  at  an  adjoining  table  in  the  little  break 
fast  room  upon  the  ground  floor ;  but  after  a  series  of 
resolute  approaches  I  never  came  nearer  to  acqaintance- 
ship  than  passing  a  '  Good  morning '  to  him  ;  and  even 
this  he  met  invariably  with  so  captious  and  churlish  a 
rejoinder,  that  for  very  sport's  sake,  I  kept  up  the  show 
of  civility  to  the  last  morning  of  my  stay.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  he  entertained  a  certain  respect  for  the  Church 
of  England  and  the  prayer  book ;  but  I  am  sure  that  he 
would  have  thought  very  contemptuously  of  Death  or  of 
any  prospective  Heaven  or  Hell,  which  were  not  occa 
sionally  spoken  encouragingly  of  by  the  Times  News 
paper. 

Upon  the  second  floor  was  an  elderly  invalid  lady, 
whom  I  freauently  saw  seated,  in  sunny  weather,  at  her 
open  window,  or  in  her  easy  chair  upon  the  grass  plai 


304  SEVEN  STORIES. 

below.  She  was  attended  by  her  maid  and  by  hei 
daughter  ;  this  last  a  fair  young  girl,  of  most  lithe  and 
graceful  figure,  and  with  one  of  those  winning  faces 
which  a  man  never  grows  tired  of  looking  on.  I  think  I 
see  her  now  hovering  about  her  mother's  chair,  offering 
a  hundred  little  attentions — now  beating  the  pillows,  that 
the  position  may  be  made  the  easier, — now  pleading  with 
her  to  taste  some  new  delicacy, — now  seated  beside  her, 
with  one  of  those  drooping  willowy  flats  half  hiding  her 
face,  as  she  reads  for  the  ear  of  the  invalid  some  frag 
ment  from  a  favorite  book  or  journal.  Both  mother 
and  daughter  wore  the  deepest  black,  and  the  widow's 
cap  told  only  too  plainly  the  cause  of  their  mourning. 

Upon  the  same  floor  with  these  last,  and  making  up 
the  tale  of  our  lodgers,  was  a  young  mother,  the  wife  of 
an  officer  of  the  Indian  civil  service,  who  had  brought 
down  to  this  balmy  atmosphere  a  sick  child ;  every  day 
the  poor  little  fellow,  with  a  languid  expression  that 
promised  I  thought  small  hope,  was  rolled  down  in  a 
Bath-chair  to  a  sunny  position  on  the  shore  of  the  bay ; 
every  day  the  hopeful  mother  walked  anxiously  beside 
him,  looking  for  a  returning  strength — which  never 
came. 

With  explorations  about  the  charming  nooks  of  the 
little  town  of  Torquay,  and  with  not  a  little  furtive  ob 
servation  of  the  personages  I  have  enumerated,  and  to 
all  of  whom  my  quality  of  lodger  permitted  me  to  give 


UNDER   THE  ROOF.  305 

passing  salutations  from  day  to  day,  I  passed  a  fort 
night.  In  the  course  of  that  time  I  had  learned  inci- 
denUilly  that  the  lady  and  daughter  who  had  attracted  a 
large  share  of  my  observation,  were  the  widow  and 
child  of  a  Colonel  Wroxley  who  had  been  killed  or 
reported  missing,  in  the  India  service  (I  think  it  was 
about  the  time  of  the  AfFghan  war) .  The  blow,  wholly 
unexpected,  had  almost  crushed  the  wife,  who  was  pre 
viously  in  delicate  health,  and  who  had  now  come  with 
her  only  child  to  struggle  under  that  balmy  atmosphere 
against  her  misfortune.  Upon  her  first  arrival,  I  was 
told,  she  had  frequently  enjoyed  the  promenade  along 
the  sands ;  but  to  the  great  grief  of  the  daughter,  she 
had  now  given  up  these  little  excursions,  and  relapsed 
into  a  state  of  despondency  and  listlessness  which  grew 
every  day  more  decided.  The  daughter  at  the  instiga 
tion  of  both  mother  and  physician  tore  herself  away  for 
an  hour  each  evening  for  a  stroll  along  the  beach,  some 
times  alone,  and  sometimes  attended  by  a  young  ac 
quaintance  from  a  neighboring  cottage. 

Now  it  happened  one  day,  toward  the  end  of  my 
first  fortnight  of  stay, — as  I  was  returning  from  rcy 
usual  afternoon  tramp, — that  I  caught  sight  before  me  in 
the  dusk,  of  this  fair  young  girl — who  had  so  enlisted 
my  admiration  and  sympathy — accompanied  by  a  gen 
tleman  whose  bearing  toward  her,  and  whose  familiarity, 
should  have  been  that  only  of  an  accepted  lover.  J 


300  SEVEN-  STORIES. 

quickened  iny  pace  as  they  drew  near  the  gateway  to 
catch  a  fuller  sight  of  this  stranger.  As  I  did  so,  they 
suddenly  turned  to  double  upon  their  walk  again  ;  and 
I  cannot  tell  what  horror  and  disgust  came  over  ine 
when  I  saw  that  her  attendant  was  none  other  than 
Barton  !  He  knew  me  at  once,  but  met  me  with  a  sur-" 
prised  and  embarrassed  manner ;  and  I  dare  say  that 
my  own  was  equally  embarrassed,  and  I  am  quite  sure, 
not  very  cordial.  He  expressed  his  wonder  at  finding 
me  still  in  Devon,  asked  my  address,  and  passed  on. 

I  had  however  no  call  from  him  the  next  day,  or  on 
any  subsequent  day.  Miss  Wroxley  met  my  salutation 
next  morning  with  a  deep  blush  ;  but  I  saw  in  her  the 
same  loving,  gentle,  unwearied  care  for  her  invalid 
mother.  That  so  lovely  a  creature  should  become  the 
victim  of  a  scoundrel  was  a  thing  too  terrible  to  think  of. 

It  was  plain  now — the  cause  of  his  domestic  infelici 
ty  ;  the  man  must  be  a  roue  of  the  worst  description. 
I  could  think  only  with  disgust  and  abhorrence  of  my 
intercourse  with  him,  and  of  my  day's  visit  at  Clumber 
Cottage.  I  found  myself  reckoning  up,  as  nearly  as  I 
could,  his  old  habitudes  and  tendencies  at  school ;  and 
it  seemed  to  me  plainly  enough  that  they  all  had  a  lean 
ing  toward  the  worst  forms  of  baseness.  I  even  thought 
of  making  a  confidant  of  the  weazen-faced  gentleman  ; 
but  when  I  saw  him  shuffling  into  the  breakfast  room 
with  his  pitched  hungry  look,  and  heard  his  captiou* 


UNDER   THE  ROOF.  307 

u  Good  morning,"  and  saw  him  thrust  his  glass  into  the 
socket  of  his  eye  for  a  new  gloat  over  some  prowess  of 
"  my  Lord  Aberdeen"  or  of  "  my  Lord  Darby" — I  re 
lented. 

Matters  remained  in  this  state — I  seeing  no  more  of 
jtfarton — when  one  morning  I  became  conscious  of  an 
excitement  pervading  the  whole  household.  The  eyes 
of  the  maid  fairly  twinkled  ;  4  boots '  even  was  full  of 
glee  ;  the  poor  mother,  whose  child  was  near  death, 
wore  an  expression  of  tranquil  pleasure,  in  her  anxiety ; 
but,-most  of  all,  the  change  showed  itself  in  Miss  Wrox- 
ley,  whose  face  as  I  caught  sight  of  it  from  the  window, 
was  fairly  radiant. 

It  was  explained  to  me  when  I  went  below :  news 
had  come  that  Colonel  Wroxley,  the  father,  was  not 
killed,  but  had  escaped  just  now  from  a  long  captivity, 
and  \\  as  safely  on  his  way  for  England.  The  wife  only, 
did  not  share  in  the  joy  ;  her  hopes  had  been  too  deeply 
shattered ;  a  hint  alone  of  the  possible  truth  had  been 
conveyed  to  her  by  her  daughter ;  but  even  this  had 
been  repulsed  with  a  shudder  of  disbelief,  and  an  en 
treaty  that  she  might  hear  no  more  of  such  rumors, 
which  had  appalled  the  poor  girl.  The  physician  upon 
his  morning  visit  had  declared  that  the  communication 
of  such  news,  if  urged  upon  her  acceptance,  in  her  pres 
ent  state  of  health,  might  give  a  shock  that  would  be 
fatal. 


808  SEVEN  STORIES. 

Meantime  the  husband  is  approaching  England  ;  the 
poor  lady  does  not  rally ;  a  dozen  different  plans  are 
devised  to  prepare  her  for  the  strange  revulsion  of  fee1- 
ing ;  but  they  all  fail  of  accomplishment ;  at  the  least 
approach  to  the  forbidden  topic,  she  refuses,  in  a  tem 
pest  of  despair,  all  hearing. 

Barton  I  have  not  met  again ;  but  on  one  or  two 
occasions,  when  Miss  Wroxley  has  returned  after  dusk 
I  have  observed  her  lingering  at  the  wicket,  and  have 
heard  a  male  voice  at  the  parting.  Once  or  twice  too, 
my  eye  has  fallen  upon  a  letter  in  the  post-man's  bud 
get  for  "Miss  Wroxley" — written  in  a  hand  I  know 
only  too  well.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  is  making 
his  way  insidiously — indeed  has  made  it  already 5 
into  the  full  affections  of  this  sweet  girl.  It  can  be  no 
affair  of  cousinship ;  else,  why  this  avoidance  of  the 
mother  and  of  the  house  ?  why  the  avoidance  of  me  ? 

Upon  a  certain  morning  somewhat  later,  the  house  is 
stirred  again  by  the  intelligence  that  the  little  fevered 
boy  is  dead.  The  mother's  grief  is  violent  and  explo 
sive.  The  poor  wan  creature  who  has  lingered  so  long 
doubtfully  between  night  and  day,  is  at  length  placidly 
stretched  in  sleep.  Yet  the  mother  cannot  abide  the 
change  from  fevered  pain  to  eternal  quietude.  Her 
noisy  grief  stirs  the  heart  of  her  invalid  neighbor.  At 
last — at  last,  there  is  a  heart  that  mourns,  as  she  has 
mourned.  The  quick  sympathy  tells  upon  every  3 


UNDER   THE  ROOF.  309 

of  her  being  She  must  join  tears  with  this  bereaved 
one.  She  insists  upon  going  to  her  ;  she  finds  a  strength 
she  has  not  found  this  many  a  day.  It  is  even  so  ;  we 
are  tied  to  life,  and  find  capacity  for  endurance,  more 
in  companionship  of  grief,  than  in  any  companionship 
of  joy. 

The  physician  shrewdly  perceives  that  advantage 
should  be  taken  of  this  exaltation  of  feeling  for  commu 
nicating  news  of  the  speedy  return  of  the  husband.  The 
willing  daughter  receives  the  needed  instructions.  She 
bounds  toward  her  one  day  as  the  mother  returns  from 
her  errand  of  mercy — throws  herself  in  her  arms — "  It 
is  true,  mamma,  it  is  true :  He  is  alive  and  we  shall  see 
him  again ! " 

"  My  poor  child — what  do  you  tell  me?" 

u  True — true,  mother :  he  is  alive,  he  is  on  his  way : 
there  is  a  letter  in  his  own  hand  that  tells  us." 

And  the  woman  bows  her  head  over  her  child — "  My 
God,  I  thank  thee  !  " 

"  No  faltering  now,  mother  ;  your  poor  friend  with 
her  dead  boy  by  her,  needs  all  your  strength — all  your 
repose  to  cheer  her.  Don't  desert  her." 

A  little  rally — a  deadly  nervous  tremor — one  wild 
gush  of  tears,  and  the  conquest  is  made. 

"  And  now  the  letter,  my  darling, — the  letter — 
quick,  give  me  the  letter ;  these  old  eyes  must  spell  it 
out." 


310  SEVEN  STORIES. 

Can  it  bo  that  a  new  and  deadlier  grief  hangs  threat 
ening  over  this  family — that  courage  and  strength  come 
so  suddenly,  for  the  strain  ? 

I  had  the  pleasure  of  witnessing  the  arrival  of  Col. 
"W  roxley  before  my  leave  of  that  delightful  town  of 
Torquay.  A  tall  swarthy  man,  bronzed  by  those  fierce 
suns  of  India,  firmly  knit  in  muscle  and  in  temper — a 
man  whose  will  I  thought  would  be  an  iron  one,  but 
whose  heart  under  it — though  making  little  demonstra 
tion — might  sometimes  melt  like  iron  in  a  furnace  ;  a 
man  to  be  trusted — not  lightly  provoked — above  all,  a 
man  to  be  obeyed. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  such  a  protector — perhaps 
avenger — might  some  day  be  needed. 

The  little  boy  is  buried  ;  we  had  all  followed  him  to 
his  last  sleeping  place  upon  a  sunny  spot  of  the  hill-side  ; 
the  mother  is  taking  on  a  calm  courage  ;  the  widow's 
caps  are  abandoned,  and  I  see  the  figure  of  the  colonel's 
daughter  flitting  under  the  trees,  of  a  mild  evening,  clad 
all  in  white.  A  sober  cheerfulness  is  growing  upon 
all  the  household — with  one  marked  exception.  The 
daughter,  at  the  first  so  radiant  with  joy  at  the  father's 
return,  is  wearing  day  by  day  a  more  disturbed  look. 
There  is  a  fitfulness  in  her  manner  which  has  not  be 
longed  to  her.  I  see  her  less  often  with  her  young 
companions.  And  I  am  somehow  conscious  of  the 
presence  of  some  party  hovering  about  the  shades  of 


UNDER   THE  ROOF.  311 

the  hill-road  at  evening — eager  to  snatch  a  word — tc 
multiply  promises — to  fasten  a  deeper  hold  upon  her 
affections. 

It  is  plain  that  the  father  sees  this  altered  condition 
of  his  daughter's  feeling,  and  in  his  awkward,  soldierly 
way,  endeavors  to  brighten  her  spirits.  And  he  enters 
upon  the  task  with  all  the  more  eagerness,  since  he  has 
already  in  days  past  laid  his  iron  rule  against  what  he 
had  judged  her  caprices.  But  the  story  of  his  own  wife's 
immeasurable  grief  has  opened  his  eyes  to  the  depth  and 
breadth  of  that  law  of  the  affections  which  no  mere  ex 
ercise  of  authoritative  will,  whether  outside  or  within, 
can  bound  or  measure.  No  man's  affections — mucli  less 
woman's — can  be  ordered  ;  to  the  front.'  The  auto 
crat  of  Russia,  magnanimous  as  he  is,  in  many  of  his 
designs,  is  wearying  and  bloodying  himself  against  this 
rule  of  our  nature,  all  over  the  Polish  plains. 

I  have  said  that  the  colonel  in  other  days  had  over 
ruled  the  daughter's  caprice.  A  certain  young  acquaint 
ance  of  his  and  son  of  an  old  friend,  who  had  been  at 
tracted — as  who  had  not — by  the  graces  of  his  daughter, 
the  colonel  had  fixed  upon  with  quite  military  resolve, 
as  his  future  son-in-law  lie  had  studied  his  character 
well ;  he  was  worthy ;  he  was  every  inch  a  soldier  ;  he 
would  make  his  daughter  happy  ;  and  Annie  must  look 
upon  the  matter  as  settled. 

The  mother  had  expostulated  ;  but  the  soldier's  fiery 


312  SEVEN  STORIES. 

will,  and  her  exalted  sense  of  duty  brought  her  to  ca 
pitulation.  The  news  of  the  colonel's  death,  instead  of 
giving  freedom  to  the  child,  had  inspired  the  mother 
\vith  an  insensate  wish  to  carry  out  to  the  last  degree 
the  wishes  of  the  father.  God  had  made  her  the  lega 
tee  of  the  colonel's  uncontrollable  will. 

But  now  this  barrier  to  the  parental  confidence  was 
removed.  The  young  aide-de-camp  had  been  killed  in 
battle.  What  could  mean  then  those  tears — that  fitful- 
ness — that  overcasting  shadow  of  trouble  ?  I  felt  that 
a  catastrophe  was  approaching.  And  it  came. 

But  the  letter  that  announced  it  did  not  reach  me 
until  I  had  left  Torquay.  I  was  at  the  Alb emarle,  Lon 
don,  when  this  exultant  note  was  handed  me — post 
marked  Modbury — from  Barton : 

"  MY  DEAR  sm, 

"  You  must  have  thought  I  treated  you  very 
scurvily.  Annie  thought  it  best  however  that  I  should 
not  call  at  your  lodgings.  We  had  been  privately  mar 
ried  a  year  before.  Though  I  ought  not  to  say  it,  the 
colonel's  return  to  life  was  something  of  a  damper  to  me  ; 
but  he  knows  it  all  now,  and  is  thoroughly  reconciled. 
I  can  show  him  a  rent-roll  from  my  little  ventures  here« 
about,  that  is  larger  than  his  colonel's  pay.  We  are  all 
at  Clumber  Cottage — happy  of  course, 


UNDER   THE  ROOF.  313 

u  If  you  will  run  down  to  pass  a  day  with  us,  I  will 
give  you  something  better  than  the  old  bachelor  greeting. 

"  Truly  /rs." 

I  was  not  a  little  taken  aback  by  this  cheery  letter. 
I  began  to  reflect  again  upon  the  old  school-boy  qualities 
which  I  thought  I  had  seen  developed  in  him.  They 
were  not  so  bad  after  all. 

I  never  hear  a  man  rashly  and  wantonly  abused 
— in  fact,  scarce  ever  read  my  morning  paper — but  I 
think  with  compunction  of  my  sins  in  that  direction,  a< 
my  quiet  lodgings  Under  tlie  Eoof,  in  the  town  of  Tor 

u 


314  SE\ rEN  STORIES. 


FINI.IL. 

THUS  far  the  memories  suggested  by  my  little  note* 
books  have  carried  me,  until  I  have  reached  the 
last  half-story,  lying  under  the  roof. 

I  put  them  back  now  upon  their  corner  of  the  Li 
brary  shelf — hoping  they  will  have  opened  the  way  to 
the  hearts  of  some  new  friends,  and  not  rebuffed  the 
kindly  spirit  of  such  old  ones  as  I  claimed  years  ago. 

The  little  books  shall  have  a  long  rest  now :  and 
whatever  I  venture  upon  in  future,  in  an  imaginative 
humor,  shall  have  its  seat  nearer  home.  It  is  not  so 
much  in  way  of  apology,  or  of  promise,  that  I  say  this, 
as  it  is  for  the  adjustment  of  some  neat  finial  for  the 
peak  of  the  roof  of  my  building  of — SEVEN  STOKIES. 


I 


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